


Curses, Consequences and Camelot

by B_B



Series: In a Land and Time of... [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Female Merlin, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Magic Revealed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-02-20 03:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 74,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13138161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/B_B/pseuds/B_B
Summary: The greatest obstacle to discovery is not ignorance - it is the illusion of knowledge. - Daniel J. Boorstin.Chaos Theory begins to take hold, for even if the future is foretold, the steps to get there are innumerable. And it seems context is just as important as truth when information is shared.





	1. The Relic Remembered

**Author's Note:**

> Hi. So.. it's been a while - sorry 'bout that. My new job is a freaking killer I gotta tell ya. 50 hour, split-shift weeks my friends, and 1 day off every 8th day. And I am certainly not a fast writer normally (not by choice, i assure you - I just can't help it) so this has slowed me astronomically. I still write, of course, and this job may not hold me another year if they don't let me advance but... we'll see. :) I still love it.  
> I also know this chapter was probs a disappointment considering the six months you guys have waited, but I'll post the 2nd chapter in a week or so to give you guys a conclusion to the ep. I haven't yet finished this book because I had to go back and add a chapter or 2 that I only realised were necessary when I couldn't reach the end without those scenes. But, um... if you guys stick with me through this book, I promise, the next one is when things get FUUUNNN! We just gotta... go through the scrub to get there is all. *Nervously sweats*  
> Don't hate me for what's coming :P  
> B  
> P.S - thanks so much for the fav, follows and reviews on the last book. I stopped replying to reviews because I needed to devote EVERY second I had to writing, and I was stressing out about how I should reply instead of concentrating on scenes - but reading them fed me like nothing else, and my smiles would be printed on my face for hours. So THANK YOU ALL!  
> Merry Christmas!

 

  A fortnight had passed since Nimueh was stopped. Merlyn's mother made a full recovery, not even spot scars to mar her beautiful face, and she left after three days despite Merlyn begging her to stay.

“I don’t belong here,” Hunith said, cradling Merlyn's cheeks. They were the same height now; castle food having been good for Merlyn's development.

“You could belong here,” she argued, pouting like a child a third her age. She knew it was unbecoming but her mother was a safe harbour in a recently wild storm. Arthur was still different, rude and snappish, having gone so far as to dismiss Merlyn for two days before ordering her back to work with new conditions. He had forced her to move out of Gaius’ spare room and into the windowless servant’s chamber attached to his bedchambers. When she asked why he snapped at her for challenging his authority and threatened to throw her in the stocks. His temper was intense and Merlyn's composure frayed under his scrutiny, unused to his ire. He glared at her with his once kind eyes, hissed at her with lips that had once kissed her, turned away when she tried to appease him. She had thought it was pain, at first, but he no longer had a sling and he was soon to be returning to light training, so it wasn’t that. And not knowing felt as if she was treading over unstable ground, always unsure if the next movement would trigger an explosion.

“I would not be happy here, my flower,” said her mother, drawing her back to the present. “I do not thrive in a city as you do. I long for pastures and a small neighbourhood.”

Merlyn sighed, dropping her gaze, knowing and despondent at that truth. “Be safe,” she mumbled, falling into her mother’s comforting embrace and burying her face in her neck.

“You also, my heart,” Hunith whispered, stroking her daughter’s hair.

Lancelot guided her back to Ealdor while Gwen stayed behind to return to her duties. Morgana was understanding of the maid’s recent absences, believing still that Gwen was grieving her father, but the relief of her return was clear. Morgana had been suffering particularly terrible nightmares recently, visions of creatures made of stone flying above the city and three-eyed ravens. It made Merlyn nervous since if what Morgana was seeing was the future, then something dangerous was coming. In light of this, she had been spending every free moment practicing spells that dealt with stone in some way, to prepare as much as possible.

Presently, Arthur, herself, Sir Leon and Sir Pellinor were in the courtyard, about to go on a hunt; Merlyn's first for a long time. His previous concerns about her reputation seemed to have disappeared and, in addition, he refused to let her leave the city without a guide. Sunstrider had suffered the training yards for many days so his eagerness to venture beyond the walls had him chomping at the bit.

“Control your horse,” Arthur snapped when her golden steed danced on the spot, waiting for the prince to mount his own horse.

Merlyn bit her lip at his tone but obliged, giving Sunstrider a bit of leg to move his hindquarters then checking his prance until he stood quiet but impatient. Previously, Arthur had never cared about Sunstrider's excitement or slight misbehaviours, in fact, enjoying the spirit the palomino stallion brought out in his own mount. But that was Before.

Now, she couldn’t even seem to breathe without aggravating him. It was starting to chip away at her confidence in their friendship, and against her will, a knot formed in her throat. Being his servant had never been so hard.

“Come on,” Arthur said as he swung onto Hengroen. Pellinor followed dutifully as the prince rode out but Leon shot Merlyn a troubled glance before falling into line – which meant he had noticed the tension between prince and servant. Even as embarrassing as it was to have another see her humiliation, it was nice to know it wasn’t all in her head; Arthur truly had changed his behaviour and others were noticing.

“Keep up, Merlyn, if you know what is good for you,” snapped the prince and she swallowed before nudging Sunstrider into the end of the line. Best to keep her head down until she could find a reason and fix it; no need to aggravate his aggravation.

Still… it chafed at her to take his criticisms without retort. She was not one to roll over and show her belly naturally and she didn’t enjoy doing it now. A bully was a bully, whether they were once her friend or not.

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“Are you a halfwit, Merlyn?” Arthur demanded, storming over to where she had tumbled into the entrance to his chambers, now covered in the prince’s dinner. She’d tripped over the hem of her dress, having bent to pick up his heavy tray after opening the door, and consequently, dropped everything as she fell, including his favourite teacup. The ceramic shards were imbedded in her left palm where she had landed on it and she pushed herself onto her knees gingerly, cradling the bleeding limb. Hot stew was burning her arms where it had splashed but she ignored it in favour of picking out the slivers and wrapping her hand in a clean part of her dress to try to stem the bleeding.

She was jolted from her focus when Arthur slid the messy tray out of the way with his boot. “Get up, Merlyn,” he ordered. “And get me another meal. I’m hungry.”

“I hurt my hand, sire,” she said, showing him the cuts on her palm. More blood welled up when she stopped applying pressure but Arthur scoffed. She looked up in surprise and saw a deep scowl on his face.

“I care not from some petty scratches. I have been working drills with the knights all afternoon and I am famished. Get me food. Deal with your sores in your own time.”

She gaped at him, speared by his callousness, but he turned away, uncaring as he spread mess over the floor with his boot. “And clean this up quickly,” he added, turning back for a moment. “I’ll not have my chambers a disgrace through your incompetence.” He pointed to the spilled food then moved to his writing desk, picking up an unbound scroll.

Merlyn was stunned for a moment, utterly flabbergasted by his heartlessness. That was… that… she couldn’t believe he would act like that.

Slowly, she scraped the worst of the food chunks from her stained dress then climbed to her feet and moved over to the broom cupboard to find rags. Her hand stung as she cleaned but she ignored it until she could tend to it privately. Wouldn’t do for Arthur to use it as an excuse to throw her in the stocks.

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Merlyn was glad of Gwen’s wedding preparations, as her friend’s excitement fed her own and allowed her to smother the persistent urge to cry or shout. Their conversations were caught in snippets between work since Arthur didn’t let her wander far or for long, but they managed some viable discussions during dinners between the royal family and Morgana. They stood in the shadows of the pillars while the nobles chatted and quietly bounced ideas between them, only separating to refill goblets.

At any rate, it was much better than dealing with Arthur alone, with all his insults and snide remarks. No longer was there jesting and light-heartedness; his words were aimed to sting – and sting they did.

“Can you be any more useless, _Mer_ lyn?”

“ _Mer_ lyn, are you talented in _anything_?”

“Why, in any sane opinion, did you think that was a good idea, _Mer_ lyn?”

“Get out of my sight, _Mer_ lyn, you are making me lose my appetite.”

“I’ll start calling you ‘simpleton’ shall I, _Mer_ lyn?”

“How about imbecile? Moron? Dunderhead? Dimwit? Though, I suppose, ‘ _Mer_ lyn’ encompasses all those adequately, doesn’t it?”

She had never hated her name so much. Or felt so terrible waking up each morning.

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Merlyn was playing with the slop in her bowl, not even knowing what it was: some sort of soup-slash-stew with heavy seasoning. It was dinner time and she had survived another day. Arthur hadn’t wanted her to leave his chambers once he had settled for the night but Merlyn had begged to eat dinner with Gaius, not having seen her guardian for more than fleeting moments for almost two weeks. To her great relief, the prince had conceded, though he gave her a time limit and promised to send guards if she hadn’t returned in an hour. An hour was hardly enough time to eat and catch up but she didn’t particularly want to spend the night in the dungeon.

And it seemed, now she was with Gaius, she had nothing to say.

“The King has been in discussion with Geoffrey of Monmouth these past two days,” Gaius shared, his wooden spoon scraping the bowl with a dry rasp. “Geoffrey has discovered ancient tomes that speak of untold treasures hidden deep beneath the castle. Uther is contemplating starting a search.”

Merlyn blinked, glancing up at the old physician. “What kind of untold treasures are we talking about?” she asked, knowing that not all treasures were gold.

“It does not say,” Gaius said slowly. “But the script tells of riches worthy of the True King of Camelot. Understandably, it has caught Uther’s attention.”

“Understandably,” she muttered. Of course, the King would want the riches of a _true_ sovereign, if only to proclaim himself such. She sighed, scooping up a lump of vegetables and broth and slurping it into her mouth. Flavour burst across her tongue and her stomach growled in appreciation, causing her to realise it was aching with hollowness. When was the last time she had eaten?

Gaius pushed over a loaf of bread as she chowed down and Merlyn tore a chunk from it to soak up some of the liquid, humming in gratitude. “‘s good,” she said through her mouthful of food, feeling savage but not wanting to stop for politeness.

The old man watched her passively; he must have missed her as much as she missed him if he wasn’t scolding her for ill-manners. She felt suddenly melancholy and her appetite died as quickly as it had sprung. She put down her spoon and forcefully swallowed the bread in her mouth. She stared at him sadly.

“I miss how it used to be,” she said softly, and his craggy face pinched in similar wistfulness. “I miss you… I miss Arthur.”

“It will get better,” he promised, reaching over to take her hand. “He must be feeling the pressure of his duties and he’s taking it out on the one person he knows will not leave him. Only a couple more years and he’ll be venturing on his Quest to earn his right as heir to the throne. His father may be pressuring him to find a wife and produce an heir.”

Merlyn shook her head. “He’s barely interacted with his father beyond standard council meetings – and I know because he refuses to allow me to leave his side. Do you know,” she added, staring at Gaius incredulously; “That he almost banned me from going to the loo – and suddenly he cares not for _propriety_ since he has me joining them on hunts and patrols! He’s acting like I cannot be trusted away from his eyes.”

Gaius didn’t have an answer for her, shrugging helplessly. Merlyn grumbled to herself as she pushed the half-empty bowl away and stood. “I’d better head back before Prince Prat decides to send guards after me. Don’t want to spend another night in the dungeons for being a minute late.”

She rolled her eyes and moved around the table, kissing Gaius’ brow before heading for the door, her weathered blue cloak hanging by the exit. Autumn had taken over the kingdom and the nights were starting to bite. She hated that she had to tromp through the cold corridors back to her chilly, dark little room beside Arthur's lavish bedchamber. He may have gifted her with a thick blanket to battle the cold but the lack of even a slim window to the outside world had her feeling very isolated within its walls. Just as isolated she felt when in Arthur's presence.

She kicked a tiny pebble that had snuck into the outer corridors and hoped Arthur's cruel phase passed quickly. His attitude dragged her down, even when he wasn’t around, and she hated feeling this way. She liked being happy and she wanted to enjoy life. Why wasn’t he letting her breathe? What was he punishing her for?

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A week passed and nothing changed. Merlyn ended up in the stocks after dropping a full teacup all over Arthur's lap, her hands shaking as they tended to do now when he glared her way. She’d apologised profusely, trying to dab up the damage but Arthur shoved her away and called the guards, having her escorted to the stocks for the day. As it was only breakfast, Merlyn had a nightmare of a sore back by the evening – and stunk terribly from all the rotten fruit thrown her way.

There was no comedy to be found in this punishment; no silver lining. Usually she could find some humour; the cheering children scoring a hit, or the actions that led to her being punished in the first place (usually ridiculous and Arthur's fault), but this time, the sour expression on Arthur's face as he watched her be led away and the disparity to the last time hot tea had been spilled on him, where they had played a silly game of catch, was like night and day. The contrast had her new reality settling coldly onto her shoulders and she found herself miserable for most of the day.

The two stock guards were very gentle as they eased her from the contraption, recognising that her behaviour was much bluer than usual, and handed her off to Gwen with care. The curly-haired maid wrapped an arm around her back despite her stained and stinky appearance, and led her to her house. She said nothing as Merlyn wiped away the occasional tear.

Inside the sturdy abode, a wooden bathtub stood proudly past the curtain partition, already steaming with hot water. Merlyn let out a shaky breath at the sight of it and turned to her friend. “Where did this come from?” she asked quietly, emotions running high with the care she was being shown.

“Morgana thought you might like some privacy after the stocks. We all need a little love and care every now and again, and I doubt Arthur has been providing any with the temper he’s possessed lately. Morgana would be here but she’s required to dine with the King tonight.”

Merlyn's chest felt tight and she whispered, “Thank you.”

Gwen only smiled tightly and helped the black-haired girl undress.

Merlyn climbed into the heated tub and sunk down with a delighted groan. “You are an angel, Gwen,” she said, closing her eyes and letting the steam empty her head.

The curly-haired maid dipped a rag into the hot water and set about cleaning Merlyn's face. The younger girl tilted her head up and let Gwen work, her care soothing some of Merlyn's rawness.

“Perhaps you should resign,” Gwen suggested quietly, still cleaning her skin.

Merlyn opened her eyes, shocked. “I cannot do that,” she denied, the very idea offensive. “I am his servant.”

“And so was Morris, and Edward, and Sean, and countless others before you came here. If they did not quit, they were soon replaced, and the cycle was unbroken. Until you.” Gwen looked down, focusing on the rag as she cleaned in it the water. “You lasted longer than any other I can remember, save his nurse when he was young, but you are not happy any longer, Merlyn. I barely see you smile when before, it rarely left your face. He keeps you to his side, yet insults you with every breath – and you allow it.” Gwen looked up and Merlyn dropped her gaze, unable to bear her own shame. “You never allowed it before, and I do not know what has changed for you to give him the authority to tear you down as he has been, but it is not right. It does not matter that he is the prince,” she added when the black-haired girl opened her mouth. “It does not matter what status he has. He does not have the right do bring you to tears and feel no guilt. No one does.”

“Well,” Merlyn jested, unable to handle the heavy atmosphere. “I think the King might.”

“Merlyn,” said the maid reproachfully and her forced grin dropped. She sighed, feeling that rawness rise once more, and reached up to play with the Camelot medallion around her neck. Its metal was an undefined blend that didn’t tarnish easily with age or moisture, so it never left her body, even when bathing.

“We were set to build a better future,” she said, staring absently at the ripples she was creating in the bathwater. “A place where equality reigned and we were at peace. Arthur was learning to see with clear eyes, free of his father’s bias, but,” she shook her head, letting the medallion fall to her chest. “But now, all he is, is prejudiced and hateful. I know not what went wrong, but I’m unable to fix it.” she looked back at Gwen, a sad frown on her face. “I do not know how to fix him.”

The maid touched Merlyn's hair, knotted and sticky from rotted food, and said sadly, “Sometimes, a person can only fix themselves. No matter the advice they are given, the paths they are led upon, only they can decide what to think and how to feel. You have guided Arthur honestly and kindly. He has become a better man from your presence. But you can lead him only so far. It is now that he must decide for himself what to be: a compassionate ruler, or a feared one.”

Once, Merlyn would have been certain which he would pick. Now… she could only hope.

“I cannot give up on him,” she whispered, staring at Gwen and hoping she would understand. Her decision may be naïve but she could not turn away just yet without hating herself. “Not just yet.”

Gwen smiled at her forlornly, brows pinched in worry. “I know,” she murmured, tugging on a dirty strand of hair. “I would have been surprised if you had.”

Merlyn huffed a weak laugh and the maid looked away before reaching for a soft bar of soap. “Alright,” Gwen said in a forced cheery tone. “Let’s clean you up.”

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Merlyn was on her bed, wrapped in her warm blanket with her thin pillow over her head, trying, vainly, to block out the sound of pickaxes beneath the castle.

“Merlyn!” called Arthur from within his chambers and the black-haired girl groaned, dragging herself from her bed and edging through the door with the blanket still wrapped around her frame.

“Yes, sire?” she asked before yawning, tiredness pulling at her eyelids like lead weights. She didn’t even notice the prince was out of his bed with only trousers to keep his modesty.

“Are you deaf?” he demanded and she internally sighed. It appeared he had prepared himself for a session of insults and braced herself to bear them, despite it being the middle of the night.

“No, sire,” she said as neutrally as she could. He always seemed to anger when she showed her hurt, like his words shouldn’t pierce her as they did.

“I want you to go down there and tell them to stop,” he commanded, pointing to the floor where the axes could still be heard, picking away at stone. Merlyn blinked in surprise; so he’d actually had a point with his slur then. That was new.

Still… she swallowed nervously. “They’re working under the King’s order,” she pointed out, in case he had overlooked that fact.

“Yes?” he retorted, in a tone that suggested she was an idiot. A familiar one these days. “And you are working under mine.”

She sighed, dropping her shoulders. “Yes, sire,” she mumbled, shivering as she shed her blanket and bared herself to the cooler air, though the chambers were warmer than the corridor would be since the fire was still burning strongly. She grabbed her cloak from the hook beside the door and wrapped it tightly around her frame, glad her hair was now long enough to warm her ears and neck. Her neckerchief was always around her throat these days, as she didn’t want to expose her scar to Arthur's cold glare lest he target it in his jibes. She didn’t think she could tolerate an attack on _those_ memories with her composure intact.

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The workers had discovered the hidden treasury, which turned out to be a tomb for an ancient, unknown noble. A booby-trapped tomb, as an unfortunate one of the workers learned firsthand. Merlyn saved Gaius from the same setup before Arthur and Uther arrived to examine the loot. Uther raised an eyebrow at her as she picked up the dented platter by his feet and she shot him a sheepish smile. Behind him, she saw Arthur rolling his eyes and he grabbed her arm as the King passed.

“Were you born clumsy or do you work at it?” he hissed then cut her off when she opened her mouth to reply; “Stand by the door and touch nothing.”

She gritted her teeth but ducked her head and obeyed, she avoided the glance Gaius shot her as Arthur moved away. Him treating her like dirt ached like a constant bruise, but when he did so in front of people she respected and cared for, it flared sharply and coloured her cheeks with shame.

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Two days later, Merlyn was being used as a footstep for Arthur to mount Hengroen when the saddle slipped and the prince went toppling backwards, his steed startled enough to canter away. Merlyn stared after the stallion with a perplexed frown on her face.

“Merlyn!” Arthur snarled, climbing to his feet and probably embarrassed by the incident. She winced at having ruined his semi-good mood.

“I don’t understand,” she implored, and Arthur snorted, eyes wide in incredulity.

“Well, there’s a surprise!” he mocked, and she scowled at the ground.

“I did that girth up myself,” she defended. It shouldn’t have been so loose; Hengroen wasn’t the type of horse to hold his breath.

“I think that might have been the problem,” he snapped and moved off, more than likely, to recapture his steed. His movements halted when an unfamiliar peasant appeared, leading Hengroen back over.

He called to the prince, “Would you like me to fit the girth properly for you, sire?”

His mild inflection on the word _properly_ had Merlyn's hackles rising. What happened to commoner solidarity?

Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise at the stranger and said, “Thank you.”

The man bowed. “It is an honour to be of service to the Prince,” he said, sugary sweet, and Merlyn grimaced at his grovelling. What a bootlicker.

The blonde knight turned to her, smug and haughty. “An honour,” he repeated pointedly. “Do you hear that, Merlyn?”

The stranger approached the prince and said, “Allow me the honour of brushing your clothes down.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at Merlyn a satisfied smirk on his face as he whispered, “ _The honour_.”

Merlyn glowered at him as the bootlicker asked, “Anything else I can do for you, sir?”

“Well,” said Arthur, turning away from her at last. “You can give Merlyn here a kick up the backside.”

The stranger chuckled and she scowled, daring him to try. “I wouldn’t wish to deprive you of the pleasure, sir,” he refused gracefully; much too smooth not to be slimy – though Arthur seemed to like him. Soon enough, the bootlicker was joining them on their hunt and he appeared too smug about that fact. Merlyn glared at his back the entire way down the main thoroughfare, forced to walk behind Hengroen as if she was Arthur's slave. Meanwhile, the toerag was strutting alongside the prince while the blonde knight chatted with Sir Leon, like he had earned the right to be there.

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Merlyn saved Arthur's life; _Cedric_ got the credit. That lying, _conniving_ little toad.

“ _All I wish for is a position in the royal household_ ,” she mocked to herself in a high voice as she stomped up the stairs to Gaius’ chambers. She was supposed to be fetching the water boys for Arthur's bath, but the arrogant twat could wait a minute; she needed to rant, and Gwen was occupied with poor Morgana, who had suffered a particularly nasty night terror with images that made Merlyn's magic itch in nervousness.

“I found this inscription on the sceptre,” Gaius said when he saw who had entered and Merlyn pushed her anger aside to join him. She could rant later, he looked like he had found something interesting. He was sitting at the table, an old tome open in front of him and a scrap of parchment littered with strange writing.

“What language is that?” she asked, unable to make head or tails of it.

“I know not,” admitted Gaius. “Sigan would have known many languages.”

“Sigan?” she asked, tilting her head at the ominous tone he was using. She moved from behind his shoulder to across the table, seating herself to stare at her guardian.

“It is his tomb,” the old man shared but Merlyn was no less enlightened.

“Who is he?” she pressed only to have Gaius stare at her in shock.

“Merlyn,” he sighed, shaking his head. “He was the most powerful sorcerer to have lived.”

Her intrigue spiked immediately and Gaius elaborated; “You didn't grow up in Camelot, but for those of us that did, Cornelius Sigan was a figure of nightmare.”

“Nightmare?” she parroted with a frown. “Why?”

“Sigan’s powers. He could change day into night, turn the tides, and legend has it, his spells helped build Camelot itself.”

She shook her head, still confused. “But if he helped forge the city then why was he feared?”

“He grew too powerful,” Gaius said. “The king at the time ordered his execution.”

She gulped at the old man’s words. Magic was a study, but it was not only for evil; building Camelot was clearly a good thing. She internally sighed. Fear, once again, caused hate and betrayal.

“If he is dead,” she said shortly. “Why are you so worried?”

Gaius shot her a glance, eyebrow raised with unease. “Sigan couldn't bear the thought that his wealth and power would die with him, so he became obsessed with finding a way to defeat death itself.”

“But that’s impossible,” she argued. “That would disrupt the balance of the Old Religion. It would have caused catastrophic results.”

“Then let us hope that he did not succeed,” Gaius murmured, eyeing the foreign script with pursed lips. Merlyn snorted, pushing away from the table.

“When has hope ever aided us?” she grumbled then realised just how sullen she sounded. Gaius looked up at her, startled, and she swallowed. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

His brow furrowed and he peered at her. “Are you alright, Merlyn?” he asked, concern lacing his tone.

She looked down, surliness growing. “I saved Arthur's life today,” she muttered. “And his new bootlicker, _Cedric_ , took the credit.” Her hands clenched as her words reignited the anger. “He forces me to walk behind his horse like I’m his _slave_ , Gaius!” she burst out and the old man blinked at her, eyebrow rising. “He has me sleep in this cold, little, windowless room beside his own grand bedchamber and belittles everything I do.” She threw up her hands, hating how her eyes burned. She was _not_ going to cry! “I do not know why I still try!” she admitted then added quietly. “Gwen said I should quit.”

The words felt blasphemous slipping from her lips but with it verbalised, Merlyn wondered if it wasn’t, perhaps, a smart idea. She could still protect Arthur from a distance, use her Emrys disguise. At least then, she wouldn’t be ridiculed and insulted.

“Merlyn,” said Gaius, reaching for one of her balled fists with his own, papery hand. “You mustn’t think like that. I know it is hard, but you cannot simply leave as the going gets tough. That is when you must dig in your heels and remind the world of why you were chosen for this task. You must focus on the future where all your suffering and hard work will have paid off, and you – and everyone like you – will be accepted. One day, Arthur will look at you and _see_ what you are. And he will accept you, magic and all.”

“I wish that day were now,” she muttered, staring down at their joined hands, squeezing Gaius’ weathered fingers gently. “I wish he didn’t hate me.”

“He does not hate you, my girl,” Gaius refuted gently. “I see he watches you with confliction. I know not what has caused it but there is no hate in his gaze.”

Merlyn met her guardian’s pale blue orbs. “Do you speak truly?” she asked, a faint little ember sparking to life where once there had only been ash. If he was conflicted then perhaps Merlyn was only an outlet for a greater issue, perhaps Gaius’ suggestion of outside pressure was closer to the truth than she had believed.

“Merlyn,” Gaius said softly. “Arthur couldn’t hate you if he tried.”

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The next morning, despite sending Merlyn down to fetch his breakfast, she returned to find Cedric had laid out a feast and Arthur was eating it with gusto. She gritted her teeth and said as calmly as she could; “Is there anything else that you need doing, sire?”

“No,” Arthur said dismissively. “I think Cedric has it all covered.”

She looked to the slimeball and he quirked a self-satisfied smile. “Oh,” he said, as if he had just forgotten. “I regret, sire, there is one thing I failed to do. Uh… muck out your horses.”

Her jaw clenched as she recognised his tactics. Arthur, it seemed, was oblivious. Or, perhaps, uncaring.

“Off you go,” he said, raising his eyebrows as if daring her to argue. She stared at the vindictiveness in his expression and pressed her lips together. He was enjoying this.

Merlyn bowed stiffly and Cedric’s unwanted voice said, ever so helpfully, “I’ll get the door for you.”

She took several steps but stopped before she moved over the threshold, turning back to her usurper and saying loudly enough for Arthur to hear, “Be careful in how much you feed him, Cedric, for he will grow fat quickly on meals like that. Like a pig being prepared for slaughter.”

She spun from the room before either man could reply and kept her head high as she marched along the corridors. Gaius’ words the previous night had stuck firmly in her brain. Despite how harshly the prince was treating her, _she_ was Arthur's servant, not the jumped up little lickspittle scraping at his feet right now. Arthur was _hers_ to care for and protect, and Cedric could leave willingly, or she would _make_ him leave. Turn him as toady as his personality.

Merlyn snorted to herself, imagining the weasel-looking peasant as a warty, brown toad, as wet and slimy as his attitude. Of course, she would never do such a thing, but it was nice to picture.

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Merlyn was cuddling Sunstrider when the head-spins hit, and she barely had a moment to lift a hand to her forehead before her consciousness was swept away. She didn’t feel herself fall to the straw-covered floor, or hear Sunstrider’s uneasy neighs – or his sharp squeal as he lunged for Cedric, who tried to untie his rope alongside the other royal steeds. Cedric yelped as his forearm was bitten but managed to dart away before the bone was broken beneath a forceful jaw. He abandoned the golden stallion and shooed the other beasts from the stable, sending them running down the street.

Sunstrider staggered as the powerful gas affected his large bulk but his master was unmoving in the straw. He nudged her with his nose, whickering in urgency as the scent of smoke called on all his instincts to flee. But he was tethered by more than rope and his master wasn’t waking.

Finally, dizziness overcame Sunstrider’s six hundred kilos of muscle and he dropped to his knees, folding his legs beneath him with an exhausted groan. He didn’t quite pass out, but his awareness drifted, and he didn’t notice the reappearance of Cedric as the wastrel removed the smoking bag of evidence then hid in the shadows to watch the show.

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Merlyn awoke to the sound of Sunstrider clambering to his feet and she opened her eyes only to wince as the sunlight from the windows pierced her skull.

“Ow,” she moaned, sitting up only to sense the presence of another person. She looked up to see Arthur, hands on his hips and face absolutely unamused.

“S-sire!” she said, climbing to her feet and using Sunstrider as a balance when her own failed.

“What are you doing?” the prince asked, his tone deceptively light. That was when Merlyn knew he was building up to something bad. He only ever started calmly when he was at his most irritated.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, hoping to waylay his temper. She rubbed her temple, head pounding like she had a hangover, though she hadn’t been drinking.

“I can see that,” Arthur agreed, a little hostility building in his tone. She winced.

“I was… I was…”

“… Yes?” he urged expectantly.

“Um…”

“Perhaps you were looking for something?” he suggested.

“Yes,” she said, leaping on it gratefully, but Arthur's ire blazed truly, his eyes sparking and nostrils flaring in much the same manner as a displeased horse.

“Perhaps we are looking for the same thing,” he continued and Merlyn frowned at him, confused. He growled when she didn’t clue in and snarled, “The _horses_!”

“The…” she glanced around to see all the royal steeds vanished from sight. She gulped. “Oh,” she mumbled, realisation settling coldly over her body.

“ _Oh_ ,” Arthur hissed. “I do not know what is wrong with you today but your incompetence has increased tenfold. I would like for it to stop.”

“I do not know what happened,” she defended herself, face heating under his scowl. “I was fine, and then-then I was dizzy…” she shook her head, glancing at the empty stalls and trying to make sense of it all.

“Sire,” interjected Cedric’s unwanted voice and she watched as he stepped delicately into the stables. “Please, sire, don't be too hard on her. She is probably a good servant; she just… she is tired.”

“I am not!” she argued, incensed that this sycophant would dare presume her state of mind.

“Maybe,” suggested Cedric, his hesitation speaking of his slimy intentions. “Maybe if she had the evening off…”

“I am not tired!” she shouted. “I did not fall asleep!”

“A good night’s rest…” he shrugged. “I am more than willing to take over her duties for the night.”

Arthur was eyeing her narrowly and she stared at him incredulously, unable to believe that he was falling for such blatant tactics. “Perhaps you are right,” he murmured and Merlyn threw up her hands.

“Can you not see what he is trying to do?” she demanded. “He's trying to be rid of me, and if you weren't such a clotpole, you would see that!”

“A what?” Arthur asked in a dangerously low tone. Merlyn swallowed, realising that she may have crossed a line.

“Clotpole,” said Cedric, _ever_ so helpfully. “She, she said clotpole.” He ducked his head, as if ashamed to repeat the word but Merlyn saw him pressing his lips together, hiding a smile.

“You!” she snapped, jabbing a finger at him. “You little toad –”

“Merlyn!” shouted Arthur and her mouth snapped shut, wide, wary eyes locking onto his own. “Cedric’s right. He can look after me tonight. I think you need time to cool off your temper and relearn how to speak before your prince.”

“Arthur,” she beseeched softly but the prince’s eyes were as hard as sapphires. She ducked her head, mortified at being humiliated in front of Cedric.

“You will return to your chambers and remain there for the rest of the night, to think on the hazards of what you are doing and how you may go about correcting them,” Arthur said. Merlyn cocked her head, confused at his wording but he said sharply, “ _Go_!” and she scurried off like a dog with her tail between her legs.

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 Despite Merlyn's previous comment on rich meals, Cedric had brought another veritable feast to Arthur's table for dinner. The prince accepted it unreservedly, though he silently agreed with Merlyn's assessment that too much too often and he would struggle to buckle his belt. However, it was a nice indulgence for a little while – much like he was indulging his pettiness by keeping Cedric on. Let Merlyn feel a little uncertainty for once, for all the worry and fear Arthur, himself, was suffering at her hand.

“Fairly unusual, sire, to have a girl as your personal servant,” Cedric said nonchalantly, hands cradling the wine flagon as he stood adjacent to the prince, like the perfect servant.

Arthur hummed. “My father mistook her for a boy after she saved my life and appointed her,” he explained, mind still caught on the black-haired girl and what to do about her _habit_. Keeping her right by his side would only work for so long before she managed to slip away and practice some dark craft. “Only later was his error realised but by then, Merlyn had already been trained and I loathed to search for yet another servant.”

“Oh, well I’m sure your father’s misassumption was perfectly innocent,” Cedric agreed. “I mean, with the shorter hair and slender form in those boy’s clothes she often wears, anyone could do the same. I’m sure she wasn’t deliberately trying to trick herself into the royal household.”

Arthur frowned at his comment, but his tone was light and not accusatory. He probably didn’t realise the danger of his words. “No,” he replied, just as casual yet with a flash of warning in his eyes. “It would have been no easy feat to manipulate a grieving sorceress to take on the persona of our finest singer in order to assassinate me only to save me at great risk to herself, all for a position in my father’s household.”

“Of course, sire,” the servant agreed, suitably chastised as he bowed apologetically. “Forgive me; I didn’t mean for it to sound uncomplimentary.”

“Of course not,” agreed Arthur, his eyes sliding over to the door hidden in the corner where Merlyn no doubt slept, hungry and dirty, in punishment of her actions and words. “But do not utter them again.”

Cedric bowed again and that was the end of that.

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Merlyn left early the next morning to work Sunstrider in the round arena, even knowing the young stallion was straining against his restrictions. He hadn’t been into the forest for a run in several weeks now and he was not enjoying it one iota. Merlyn understood his behaviour, for she too, felt like running around the yards, kicking and bucking and ignoring all orders. But, alas, she had no such releases.

She left him in the long yard beside Hengroen and watched as the two stallions chased each other up and down the fence, ears back and snapping. She shook her head; they liked to pretend they hated each other but she knew they were friends. They were simply too proud to accept it.

She was heading back up to the castle when Gaius found her and shared his translation of the foreign inscription on the sceptre. “He who breaks my heart, completes my work.”

“So, if the stone is removed from its setting, then the heart is broken and the soul released,” she interpreted, dread rising in her chest.

Gaius confirmed it with his words: “That is what I fear.”

“We are in grave peril,” she said. “I must warn Arthur!”

The warning bell sounded as she spoke and she looked to Gaius before they both rushed off to the castle.

The gate was undamaged; unlocked instead of broken, and the blue heart sceptre atop the coffin was now drained of any colour. Sigan had been freed. And she knew exactly by whom.

“Cedric is possessed by an evil spirit,” she told Arthur, bursting into his chambers as he filed a report on the break-in.

Arthur paused then, slowly, put down his quill. He folded his hands together then met her agitated gaze. “What?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

She put her hands on the desk and leant forward, trying to impress upon him the urgency of the matter. “He tried to steal the jewel, but it wasn't a jewel, it was a soul of an ancient sorcerer, Sigan.” She shook her head, hearing how mad she sounded. She closed her eyes, rephrasing herself; “The sceptre atop the coffin wasn’t a jewel, it was the soul of Cornelius Sigan, captured by the will of the sorcerer upon his death and enchanted to possess the body who took it to complete his work.” She opened her eyes and met Arthur's frown. “He was put to death for his powers,” she explained, lest he not remember the tale that, apparently, every child in Camelot was told. “But he vowed to return and lay waste to Camelot. Arthur. He has returned. In Cedric.”

“Why should I believe you?” he demanded and Merlyn was taken aback at the unexpected question, her mouth open as she tried to comprehend his query.

“I… I am your faithful servant,” she said, hurt he would question her like this. “I would not lie to you, Arthur. Camelot is in mortal danger.”

The prince clenched his teeth, his hands scrunching into fists on the desk. Merlyn stared at them, alarmed at his aggressive reaction. He appeared to be biting back words, jaw working hard to stop them spilling free. She straightened up, wary.

Eventually, he let out a long breath and said without glancing at her, “Leave me.”

“But –”

“I said leave!”

She backed out of the room, bewildered.

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That night, Camelot was besieged by gargoyle-like creatures. There were dozens of them, swooping down and attacking people, laying them low in one fell blow. Weapons were useless on them, which revealed them as beasts of sorcery. And Merlyn had learned quickly in her time at Camelot that only magic could defeat magic.

She clasped her red cloak about her throat and threw up the hood, brushing her hand over her face to darken the shadows and conceal her identity. She rushed out of the physician’s chambers and scurried down the stairs, arriving in the courtyard in time to blast a gargoyle that was diving towards a cluster of townsfolk with its claws extended and teeth bared. Two women screamed as it exploded and rubble rained on them but Merlyn yelled, “To the citadel!”

They obeyed with fear on their faces and she charged over the drawbridge to find more. They were easy to spot, loud and destructive as they were. And it seemed her appearance called a silent challenge, for three landed before her with bold roars. She blasted them into dust without fanfare and shouted to the sky, “Show yourself, Sigan! Or are you coward?”

There was a clatter on the drawbridge behind her and she turned to find Arthur, Lancelot and several knights armed and in formation. Their weapons didn’t lower in the face of her presence. “Is this your doing, sorcerer?” demanded Arthur, scowl heavy. Lancelot shifted behind him but said nothing, thankfully.

“The one you seek is Cornelius Sigan, Prince Arthur,” she said, deepening her voice as she realised she had forgotten to magically alter it. “It is he who lays waste to your city. But I will stop him.”

“According to legend, he is the most powerful sorcerer to ever live,” Arthur snapped. “What is your legend, _magician_?”

She tucked her chin, but didn’t lower her eyes, though the prince would not be able to see beneath her hood. “Mine is still being written, Prince. I am not a relic of times long past, I am a creature of the future, as are you.”

“We have nothing in common!” Arthur snarled but they were distracted as more gargoyles swept down to engage them.

Merlyn bested two before a third caught her by surprise and sent her flying with a snap of a wing to her back. She hit the stone border bracketing the drawbridge and consciousness fled immediately.


	2. The Curse of Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merlyn has a rough go of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to share this on my next day off but it's shorter than I thought, so have it three days early. Happy New Year!

Merlyn startled awake with the touch of a wet cloth upon her forehead and hastily tried to sit up. Gentle hands halted her movement and she hissed as her shoulder protested sharply.

“Easy, Merlyn,” soothed Gwen, calloused hand touching her cheek. “You dislocated your shoulder and bumped your head.”

The black-haired girl opened her eyes, wincing as light stabbed into her skull. Gwen hovered beside her, gentle features pinched with stress. Her curly hair was dishevelled and sprinkled grey with dust.

“It feels like I did more than bump,” she mumbled hoarsely, lifting a hand to feel the damage but the maid captured her hand before she could reach it and placed it back over her belly. “How did…?” memories returned and Merlyn gasped, grabbing Gwen's arm. “Who found me?” she breathed. “Who carried me here?” she peered at their surroundings, wondering where ‘here’ was.

She recognised it as the side chamber off the main entrance to the castle, used after Valiant’s assault on the King. There were several cot-beds set up with injured people on them, most notably, Arthur and Lancelot, the latter swaying dazedly under Gaius’ hands while the former bore a bloody bandage over the left side of his chest. Arthur's eyes locked on her own across the room before he swiftly returned his attention to his father; his face was unreadable.

She glanced down but saw she wore only her dirtied and torn work dress – no red cloak to be seen.

“Arthur brought you in with his knights,” Gwen explained, slightly alarmed at Merlyn's panic. “Why?”

“Gwen,” she breathed, heart in her throat. “I was wearing my Emrys cloak.”

The maid blanched and glanced towards the prince. “Perhaps Lancelot found you first,” she said hopefully. “I do not think the prince would be so calm if he had just discovered your identity.”

Merlyn also looked towards Arthur. “True,” she murmured but her heartbeat was thrumming inside her chest. Perhaps he was saving his ire for after the city was no longer in jeopardy. Perhaps the reality had not yet sunk into his brain. Perhaps –

The building shook and dust rained down. There were several whimpers and all eyes turned skyward but the ceiling did not crack. Gaius swept to her side and Gwen moved back.

“I must go check on Lancelot,” she said, eyes already focused on her fiancé. Merlyn waved her away, her own gaze intent on her guardian.

“Gaius,” she whispered, clasping his hand and using it to sit up. “Ooh,” she groaned as the world spun and she leant forward to rest against the old man’s shoulder. When the stabbing pain in her head had dulled, she said, “Gaius, I was wearing my cloak when I was knocked out.” The old man froze, and she pulled back to see his wide eyes. She gulped. “I know not who stripped me of it; Lancelot… or Arthur.”

Gaius glanced over her shoulder to the gathered knights and murmured, “Lancelot is in not fit state to recall anything. He is severely concussed.” There was the sound of heaving and Merlyn looked back to see Lancelot bowed over a pail held by Knight Pellinor. Gwen had a damp cloth resting over the nape of his neck, her features pinched in worry.

The castle trembled again and Merlyn felt the destructive magic in the air, digging itself into the very foundation of the castle like an aggressive strangler vine. It tasted acidic on her tongue.

“Sigan must be stopped, Gaius,” she said, tilting her head to capture his attention. “I must find a way to stop him.”

The old man shook his head, craggy features pinched in anxiety. “Merlyn, Sigan’s power is far beyond yours.”

“I have no choice!” she retorted. “I cannot stand back and watch as he desolates this whole city. What of the people dying out there right now? Of Arthur, who will not let Camelot fall before he does.”

Gaius sighed, bowing his head before he said quietly, “There is only one alive who is old enough to give us the answers we need.”

She ducked her head to meet his eyes, hope rising in her heart. “Who do you mean?” she asked.

He kept her gaze as he said, “The Great Dragon.”

She leant back in surprise. She knew he knew the dragon lived under Camelot, but she hadn’t realised he knew _she_ was on friendly terms with him. “The Great Dragon is mired in resentment and loneliness,” she warned. “Begging him for favours is a dangerous notion right now.”

“I am not sure that you have much of a choice, Merlyn,” Gaius pointed out and the black-haired girl conceded it as the earth rumbled again and a sharp crack was heard. Everyone looked towards the outer wall and saw a hairline fracture had split the once-unmarred stone.

Arthur stood abruptly and his voice was heard clearly as he told his father, “It is my duty to Camelot – and to myself!”

He marched towards the door, loyal knights following in his wake. Lancelot tried to stand but Gwen shoved him back down and put her hands on her hips. Merlyn also stood, steadier than her brown-haired friend, and slipped out the back door as Gwen’s scolding tone carried out. Her voice soon faded as the black-haired girl sprinted towards the dungeons.

There were no patrols in the corridors and no sentry guarding the entrance to the dragon’s lair, so Merlyn had a clear path. She thought it a little negligent for castle security but understood how one’s fear could drive them to abandon post.

She entered the cavern in record time and shouted into the darkness, “Dragon!”

She _had_ to learn his name. It was simply rude now, not to know.

“Hello?” she called when there was no answer. “Please, I need your help!”

A heavy chain rattled in the distance and the Great Dragon swooped from the heights to blast her with a wave of air as he slowed his landing. Her balance was already unsteady, and the gale of wind knocked her on her rear. The scaled beast did not look apologetic as he tucked his wings to his side, but she buried her annoyance for more important things.

“What need have you for me now, witch?” he asked, his tone cold. Merlyn winced, knowing her accusations at their previous meeting, on his bitterness and resentment, had struck deeply and truly. She also knew that she, herself, would be angry at only being visited at times of great need, as if she wasn’t worth the time for her own merits. But she didn’t have time to be delicate.

“Cornelius Sigan has returned, possessing another’s body in order to lay waste to Camelot. I do not know how to stop him, for he has already conquered death.”

“One does not _conquer_ death, Merlyn,” the dragon said, head held high. “He merely cheats it. Everything turns to dust in the end.”

“Well he has cheated it,” Merlyn said, irritated. “And I need to know how to stop him.”

“To defeat Sigan, you will need a spell more powerful than anything you know,” he explained, and she nodded her head.

“Please, I have to try. Arthur is out there right now.”

“Very well,” the dragon dipped his head in close, breath a furnace against Merlyn's skin. “But you must give me something in return.”

Wariness slid across her mind, residue left in its wake like slime. He had never bartered before. “What do you request?” she asked.

“A promise,” he breathed and sweat broke out over her body under the onslaught of hot air.

“A promise?” she repeated, blinking her dry eyes.

“That one day you will free me,” he finished and moved his head away to stare down at her haughtily from his great height. She frowned, perplexed.

“I have always planned to free you,” she said. “Despite your… issues, I would not leave you caged as you have been. That is what Albion is about.”

“Albion is many years away, and still may not come to pass.” He tilted his head, watching her keenly from one golden eye. “I want your oath to release me at a time of my choosing.”

“That’s…” she hesitated on the word ludicrous. It was a dangerous deal, giving him all the power. But it was also a show of trust in her values. He was taking her on her word when, to some, words were nothing but lies to be weaved.

She asked, “If I release you, what will you do?”

His eyes narrowed, and he said sharply, “That is not your concern.”

The cavern rumbled, and fine rubble rained in front of the ledge like a curtain. She gnashed her teeth. There wasn’t enough time to think!

“Can you promise not to attack Camelot when you are freed?” she asked, desperation driving her onwards. “If Uther is still King and Albion does not yet exist, can you promise not to besiege her walls?”

The dragon stared at her, his alien features impossible to decipher. Finally, he said, “I will not besiege her walls.”

She let out a small breath, feeling a weight lift from her shoulders. “Thank you,” she sighed, closing her eyes. “Then I promise to free you when you wish it to be so.”

The dragon bowed his head and instructed in a deep voice, “Close your eyes and open your mind.”

She did so, feeling a little rushed in trying to release her magical awareness, but as a silken touch caressed her body, she felt knowledge slot into place in her mind as if it had always been there – like an infant recognising their hands for the first time. The magical touch felt like Morgana's summer sheets, solid liquid sliding over her skin, cool and soft like silk. But it had nothing on the hot starburst of information that scorched her thoughts.

She opened her eyes and felt the tell-tale heat over her irises as her magic responded to the input. The dragon said, drawing her back to reality, “Few have ever been gifted such knowledge. Use it wisely.”

“I will,” she promised, and dashed back up the dark tunnel.

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She sprinted across the smoky courtyard, the dark of night laying its blanket across the city. Rubble and bodies lay scattered over the cobblestones, but Merlyn didn’t pause to check them, refusing to see their faces lest she recognise one. All was silent, neither knight nor gargoyles present, though she could hear the faint flap of large bat-wings overhead. Smoke must be obscuring her from their sight, thick and choking as it was blowing across the square.

She held her sleeve to her mouth and dashed under the arch to the drawbridge but let out a muffled scream when she was abruptly wrenched to the side. She flailed and would have fallen, had the other person not spun her and slammed her against the bottom of the rampart. The wind was knocked from her lungs, but her inhale stuttered when a blade was pressed against her throat.

She recognised Arthur when he leaned in close. His blue irises were hard as stone and his sclera bloodshot from the smoke. She saw the moment he recognised her. And the moment he hesitated to remove his sword.

Her heart shattered, and the devastation must have shown on her face, for he quickly stepped back and demanded, “What are you doing here?”

She lifted a hand to her neck, tucking her chin as she rubbed the skin, trying to rid the memory of cold steel. “I –” she said, clearing her voice as it warbled and betrayed her distress. “I want to help.”

Arthur made a faint noise in the back of his throat and turned away. “Get out of here, Merlyn, before you get yourself killed.”

She clenched her fists but was saved from replying by the appearance of a gargoyle. It thumped down loudly, though still unseen through the smokescreen, and gave a screech as it marched closer, clearly sensing where they were. Arthur herded her backwards, keeping his weapon bared before him, but another gargoyle-shaped shadow flapped overhead to land on their other side, wing beats blowing away much of the gusting smoke as it cut them off.

She spun to face it, unsure of his plan (if he had one), and called back worriedly, “Arthur…”

“I know,” he said tightly then lunged at his adversary, landing a blow that had it screaming and crumbling to dust.

_Oh, right_ , Merlyn thought to herself. _Burnished sword_.

“Move!” Arthur shouted, shoving her aside as her gargoyle leapt forward. The prince took the hit meant for her and went flying across the courtyard, smacking his head on the cobblestones with a loud crack.

“No!” Merlyn cried, hoping he was only unconscious. She pushed herself to her feet and shoved her palm out. “ _Astrice_!” she hissed, and the creature blasted into rubble.

She ran to Arthur's side, squatting down to check his breathing and pulse. She let out a long breath when they were both present. “Arthur,” she murmured, touching his cheek as her other brushed around his head to find the bump.

“Who would've believed it?” Sigan said in Cedric’s voice, strolling out of the shadows like he belonged there. He had attired himself in a crow’s-feather cloak; ugly and ostentatious, just like the man himself. “ _You_ , a sorceress, and a powerful one.”

“I will not let you hurt him,” she growled, bowing over Arthur's body like she could physically shield him.

Sigan raised his eyebrows. “And you are going to stop me?” he asked, amusement clear in his tone.

She glowered and rose to her feet, fists clenched at her sides. “I will stop you,” she promised.

The greedy sorcerer shook his head, incredulity on his face. “He does not deserve your loyalty. He treats you like a slave.”

The truth of that stabbed in her heart but she buried it forcefully, focusing on the positives, just as Gaius advised when she had said those very same words. She lifted her chin proudly.

“You are a relic of a time long passed,” she said. “The future is coming and with it, a golden age for all people, magical and not.”

“That is _my_ vision,” Sigan implored, sliding closer. “I only want the world to see our greatness. To have people know us for who we are. Look inside yourself, Merlyn. You have yet to discover your true power, wasting away at the feet of a royal who cast you aside without a moment’s thought. You are meant for more than this.”

Merlyn shook her head. He was a very good manipulator, twisting the truth in his favour so the words hit deeply. She argued, “This is the way it has to be. Progress is made through adversity.”

“But it must hurt so much to be so put upon,” he murmured softly. “So overlooked, when all the while you have such power.”

She glared at him. “It is difficult to not be able to work openly, to not help as much as I could, were I not hiding myself away, but I do not beg for recognition for recognition’s sake. Only an arrogant man would do that.”

The jab was clear and Sigan’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “If you join me, we can rule over this land together. Arthur will know you – he will tremble at your voice, kneel at your feet.”

“That is not what I want,” she refused. “That is not what Albion will be.”

“You would rather be a servant, belittled, unappreciated, cast aside?”

She stood proudly. “Better to serve a good man than to rule with an evil one.”

He glowered at her. “So be it,” he declared. “If you will not join me, I will become you and your power will be harnessed to my will.”

Cedric’s body convulsed and his head turned to the right until there was a sharp snap as his neck broke. Merlyn blanched, sickened by the horrid sound. He collapsed, dead, and soft blue mist began to leak from his mouth, ears and nose, slithering like an opaque serpent across the cobbles. Merlyn braced herself, calming her rapid breaths. This was what she wanted. This was planned.

“ _Ic thin sawol her beluce,_ ” the mist snaked up her legs, rising behind her like a cobra prepared to strike. “ _Abide thaet ic the alyse!_ ”

She choked, Sigan’s essence like an inferno as it forced its way down her throat. She fell to her knees, head turned to the heavens as the flame spread through her veins and into her brain, obliterating everything except the desperation to be rid of the pain.

She screamed, but she no longer had control of her mouth. She tried to grab her head, but her arms did not obey her. She fell forward, hands braced beside Arthur's body before strength left her completely and she dropped, face first, onto his armoured torso.

Her consciousness imploded.

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Sigan was defeated, trapped in his sceptre once more. The death toll was high, dozens of casualties all over the city, bodies clumped together of families and friends who had tried to protect each other. The gravediggers were forced to build a new cemetery and the King had it ornamented with a large, white-stone obelisk at the arch entrance. Engraved was a phrase; ‘Remember the sacrifice in the war against Magic; Remember those that were slain by Evil.’

Merlyn didn’t visit.

Reparations in the city began immediately. The citadel’s infrastructure was sound, but damage had been done to the stone, and the King wanted the incident put away as quickly as possible. Another group of builders set upon the markets and lower town, and Merlyn was glad that the King was not leaving the citizens bereft of shelter. It was moments like this that reminded her that Uther may be biased but he cared for his people.

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Two days passed before Arthur summoned Merlyn. She had been ordered to aid Gaius with the many wounded while Arthur had been busy organising repairs and temporary shelters for the homeless. They had barely seen each other in passing, both returning at odd hours in the night. But though she had been busy (and honestly relieved not to have to see the prince), it did not stop her from fretting.

Lancelot remembered nothing of the attack, the knock to his head laying him low for several days, but he assured her that it must have been he who removed her cloak as neither the prince nor the knights were crying witch. Merlyn wished it were so, but the memory of a cold blade pressed to her skin had her dreading otherwise.

When a guard appeared in Gaius’ chamber, with a missive for her to meet the prince, her heart skipped a beat and she felt distinctly ill. Was this it? Was she about to be ousted as a sorcerer?

“Merlyn,” said Arthur when she ducked inside his chambers. He wore chainmail with his sword strapped to his waist, clearly preparing to head out, but he had waited at the window for her to appear. She tucked her hands together and tried not to bow her shoulders with unease. His impassive stare wasn’t helping.

“Sire,” she replied. “You wish to see me.”

“I do,” he said and rested one hand on the hilt of his sword. “It seems you were correct in your assumption of Sigan’s return… and in Cedric’s duplicity.”

“So you – you believe me now?” she clarified, a little surprised he would even bring it up. Considering his recent attitude, Merlyn expected him to simply bury the incident and move on.

“It would be foolish not to see the truth before me,” he said then pressed his lips tightly together before adding sourly, “And I’ve done enough of that to last a life time.”

She frowned a little in confusion, unsure of his meaning. “You cannot blame yourself for being duped, sire. You are trusting and see the best in people.” She twisted her face in apprehension as she continued, “Insight comes with experience, but it is not bad to expect everyone to act as nobly as you.”

Arthur turned away and started laughing – a little hysterically – with his head bowed and shoulders shaking. Merlyn was taken aback at the odd reaction and took a hesitant step forward. “Sire?” she asked. “Are you well?”

He straightened up and took a deep, settling sigh before saying to the window, “I just find it ironic that you would speak so to me.”

He turned around, the lingering humour on his face a mask for a deep rage. Alarm swept through her belly like she’d missed a step.

“What… what do you mean?”

“Do not pretend you do not know!” he snarled, dropping his façade. His hand was tight around his sword hilt, though he did not draw. “Not now. Not when I finally know the truth.”

She gulped, feeling a little unsteady, like the earth had tilted sideways and gravity wasn’t holding her properly. She stared at his fist, hand creeping up to cover her throat. “I’m… I don’t – I don’t understand…”

He stepped forward, face a dark cloud of emotion. “Do not play with me, Merlyn. I know who you are – _what_ you are. You have betrayed me and this kingdom, but I will not have you deceive me any longer! You are a sorceress! Say it.”

She stared at him, the light-headedness of blood draining from her face making her stagger. Reality fuzzed out of focus and her vision stretched oddly. A hand grabbed her upper arm tightly and Arthur's angry face moved close, filling her sight. “Say. It.” he growled.

“I-I c-cannot –”

He made a noise of disgust and pushed her away, spinning on his heel as she stumbled and fell on her backside. She landed hard but was unable to register the pain. Her wide eyes were locked on the prince’s pacing body, brain empty of all thought except for two words echoing cavernously in her consciousness.

He knew.

He knew.

_He knew_.

A loud ringing drowned out her hearing, ears tolling with a mental scream. _Run away_ , her instincts shrieked. _Save yourself_.

But how could she?

Arthur was the key to the future of Albion. She was supposed to be his guide and protector. How could she abandon that? How could she throw away everything she’d worked so hard for; that the magical world was begging to be done?

“I order you to cease and desist,” Arthur snapped, and Merlyn looked up to see him several paces away, half-turned to face her. His hand still rested around his sheathed weapon and she wondered if it was for reassurance lest she attack, or in indecisiveness on whether to behead her right then and there.

“Stop?” she said dumbly.

“Yes,” he gritted out “You have been a good and loyal servant, so I give you this one chance to atone. My father need never hear of your exploits if you abstain immediately.”

She shook her head slowly in disbelief, eyes wide on the prince. “Arthur,” she whispered hoarsely. “I… I cannot.”

He stared at her, _hurt_ flashing across his face before anger took hold once more.

“You would deny my request?” he demanded. “I show you this act of mercy by not turning you over immediately, yet you refuse to obey me?”

“No!” she exclaimed, clambering onto her knees but feeling it unwise to rise further. “I don’t want to refuse you, but I cannot stop using my magic. I have tried before, in the past, but I fail.”

“Because you are not dedicated enough!” he snapped. “Magic is a study; a dark art. You are merely too lazy to return to the ways of the common people.”

“I am not!” she argued. “You don’t understand me – it is not a choice of my own. I am unable to control it enough to stop. It runs through my veins like blood.”

“All the more reason to forgo its power. Magic corrupts, Merlyn, and you are playing with things beyond you. If you do not desist then I will be forced to act, and I _will_ turn you over for execution.” He stared at her indecipherably for a long moment before marching towards the door.

He was too far away for Merlyn to grab his hand or his trousers so she cried at his back, “Wait! Please don’t do this! It’s not my choice! I didn’t ask for this. Please, please _stop_!”

He halted with his hand on the door handle and said coldly over his shoulder, “I didn’t ask for my servant to be a traitorous sorceress either, but we do not always get what we want.”

“I-I’m not a –” Arthur marched out the door and Merlyn slumped in defeat, feeling like her whole world was crashing down around her. “I’m not a sorceress. I’m a witch,” she whispered to the empty room. She bowed her head, loose hair falling over her face.

_So now he knows me._

_And still, he hates._

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Meanwhile, Arthur made it to a disused wing before his temper got the best of him.

He let loose a roar of rage and swept an empty vase and fruit bowl off a table within an unoccupied room, the loud clatter and smash not enough to sate his wrath. So he went at the wooden table itself with his sword, hacking at it like he was bearing a wood-axe instead of a knight’s weapon. Woodchips flicked through the air until, with a mighty cleave to its centre, the table cracked and folded inwards, as broken and useless as he felt right now.

He stepped back, breath heavy and hitched, which he blamed entirely on his actions and none on his emotions. The same with the burning in his eyes.

But, god… that look on her face. The terror. The desperation. The realisation that he knew her dirty little secret.

He scrubbed at his face and sheathed his sword. How could she think to deny his order? What right did she have to refuse him? _He_ wasn’t the one deceiving those who cared for him. _He_ wasn’t the one who was risking his very soul for a power trip!

Was it already too late? Was she already twisted and demented? Perhaps that was why she denied him; her mind was no longer sound, for what sane person would tell the prince no to his face when the only other option was their death? And everybody knew that sorcerers were anything but rational simply by the evidence of history.

He took a step back and sighed, eyeing the destruction. He needed to leave before any servants or guards investigated the noises he’d made. After all, empty hallways echoed, and he hadn’t exactly aimed to be quiet.

Damn it! But he didn’t want to face Merlyn again. She had robbed him of the security of his chambers; of his security and trust in anything related to her. Because, who knew, perhaps she was just another evil sorcerer bent on creating chaos.

But she _had_ to have good intentions, for it had been _he_ who had shed her of the red cloak during Sigan’s attack. It had been he who realised that she was the one who had saved him several times in disguise – and, perhaps, several more he knew not. Why would she risk herself if only to kill him in the end?

Perhaps… perhaps she wanted the throne? Because there was no way she could truly care for the son of the king who hunted her kind. Yet she flirted, and blushed, and even kissed him.

Well. _He_ had kissed _her_ – but she’d responded quite avidly. And a sorcerer wouldn’t do that unless she had plans to seduce him.

He felt dirty. Used. Betrayed.

But most of all, _confused_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.. I hope the small insight into Arthur's mind relieves some of that spiking irritation I know you all feel for him right now, lol. To change one's fundamental perspectives is a massive endeavour that requires an open mind, willingness to see, and objectivity. Arthur has none of these and all of his father's stubbornness.
> 
> Thanks so much for the reviews, favs and follows. It's so great to see this story capturing people's attention. :D
> 
> P.S. I had a review from LadyLiterature regarding her plans to do art based on this work. Please, if you do, tell me where so I can find a way to link it. It simply amazes me that my story has inspired someone to create - it's so fabulous, and exactly what art should be about; expression and stimulation. I definitely love being a part of it.
> 
> Lots of love in the new year!


	3. The Coming Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Consequences, weddings, and contests abound

Gaius did not take the revelation that Arthur knew Merlyn's secret well.

“You must leave,” he said, rushing around to gather food and a travel satchel. “You must flee the city, return to Ealdor at once.”

“I cannot, Gaius,” she said, sitting tight as a bowstring at the table in the physician’s quarters. She followed the panicky old man with her eyes. “If I run, Arthur will never accept me. He may even have me hunted down.”

He swung around, eyes wild. “He may yet have you burned,” he exclaimed. “It matters not that he has been silent so far. He has a duty to his King as Prince of the Realm. Do not be foolish, Merlyn! You must go while you still can.”

“Gaius,” she said, shoving herself to her feet and grabbing his hands as he moved past. “Gaius, stop.” He did so but she felt the trembling in his fingers. She squeezed his hands reassuringly. “I cannot leave, Gaius,” she said softly. “If I do then Arthur will never accept me and what I represent. It is as you said; I cannot leave when the going gets tough. I must dig in my heels and remind the world why _I_ was chosen to guide Arthur. And, one day, Arthur will know me and accept me, and Albion will be born. Gaius… he had to find out eventually.”

“Yes,” he agreed, voice shaky. “But he is still too young, too naïve. Too caught under his father’s beliefs. Merlyn,” he removed her hands from his and reached out to cup her cheeks. She leant into his touch, eyes closing. “My dear girl. I cannot watch you burn. I _cannot_. It would kill me.”

She covered his quivering hands and whispered with conviction – probably more than she truly felt inside, but his panic was calming her own, oddly enough; “I am not going to burn, Gaius. I have faith in Arthur. He has known what I was for weeks now, and he has done nothing. If he was going to have me arrested, he would have done it before admitting to me his knowledge. I do not believe he will turn me over unless I commit a crime, and I have no plans thus.”

“Using magic is a crime in itself, Merlyn. You cannot predict when he will change his mind. I beg you, _please_ , leave Camelot.”

She removed his hands from her face but kept them between her own, bringing them to her mouth to kiss. “All will be well, Gaius. You will see.”

He eventually relented, forced to do so when she refused to obey his pleas. She felt awful, seeing the toll her stubbornness was wearing on his soul but she truly believed that if she did not stay, all hope would be lost. It was a certainty deep in her heart, in the place where her magic lived, and she would not ignore such an instinct.

So she stayed.

However, Gaius did not go quietly. He informed Lancelot and Gwen, seeking them out the moment she left him, and they, too, believed she should flee.

Thankfully, they were not as hysterical as Gaius and listened to her reasons. Gwen, her dear friend, did cling to her for several long minutes, tucking Merlyn's head into her neck as she stroked her hair. It appeared to be more for the maid’s comfort than Merlyn’s, but the black-haired girl was far from complaining. It was always nice to be cuddled.

Lancelot was the one that had Merlyn's heartrate spiking when he offered to approach the prince and reveal his knowledge.

“No!” she exclaimed, grabbing his tunic sleeve lest he enact his foolish plan right then. “Don’t be daft, Lancelot, you know what a risk that is. What if he decides you need to be punished for your knowledge? To aid a sorcerer is to be condemned as one and you are a knight, a noble now. Do you know what they do to nobles who betray them? They cook them in a vat of oil. Alive. No,” she added, shaking her head. “I’ll not let you risk it.”

The brown-haired knight appeared slightly nauseous at her claim, but his features were still earnest as he covered her hand with his own. “It is a risk, but so is you remaining here at the mercy of the Prince’s preconception. At the moment, he is alone with this knowledge and it will be eating at him. If I can be an ear to vent and explain – one less biased than his father – perhaps he will be the better for it. I know you, Merlyn. I have seen your courage and your sacrifice. Arthur needs to see you as we do – _as_ you are, not _what_ you are – or he may choose to do something he cannot take back.”

“I cannot,” Merlyn pleaded, feeling a sense of panic rise at the thought of Lancelot laying himself bare for her. “I cannot permit you. Please, you and Gwen are to be married in two weeks. I would never forgive myself if your future was to suffer because of the present. This is my path to walk, and my burden to bear.” She looked between Gwen and Lancelot imploringly. “Arthur will change his views; destiny assures it.”

Lancelot bowed his head, disappointed, but Gwen grabbed Merlyn’s forearm gently. “I do not care for destiny or fate, Merlyn. I only care for your happiness.”

The knight looked up at her from under his enviously long eyelashes and added, “The path may lay true, but destinies are always wrought with heartache and struggle. I would not see you suffer a pain that is avoidable.”

She smiled at them, eyes burning with their sincerity. “That is what you are not understanding,” she said softly. “This is necessary. ‘Without struggle, there is no progress’. But do not fret, I have friends who know me and love me. I know I am not alone. And that gives me strength.”

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She visited the dragon that night and told him of the revelation. He reared back in surprise.

“This is sooner than the tales foretold,” he admitted and dipped in close to peer at her keenly, golden eyes narrowed. “What happened?”

She avoided his intense gaze by staring at her twisting fingers and said, “He… asked me to stop. He still believes magic is corruptive. But,” she held up a hand and looked up at him. “He has not revealed me to anyone, nor has he had me restrained.”

“Hmm,” said the dragon, settling back on his perch and refolding his wings. “Destiny is as stubborn as it is dangerous, young witch. Be warned; you tread a narrow path between progression and devastation. Do not be reckless.”

“I promise,” she said. “But I refuse to leave Camelot. Gaius wishes me to flee, but my heart warns me not to.”

“And that,” the Great Dragon intoned. “May be either your saving grace or the ruin of everything. Heed my words, Merlyn. Albion may still fall.”

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Arthur was on the rampart overlooking the courtyard and lower town. He stared at the people bustling below, content and healthy as they concentrated on their little circle of life. Arthur stood above it all, and felt ancient and alone. How he wished he could be the merchant selling jewels, or the blacksmith forging swords, or the groom training horses. How simple their lives were. How straightforward. Wake, eat, work, sleep. Find a partner, get married, have some children…

Unbidden, an image of Merlyn plucking a flower from her hair and gifting it to a little girl who stared up at her adoringly, hair golden and eyes blue… he shook his head sharply and clenched his hands into fists atop the broad balustrade.

She was a sorceress, a liar, a deceiver. The woman he knew was nothing more than a façade, and what was underneath was a demon waiting to grow. His trust was broken, but he would not condemn her to suffer for her naivety. She was too kind for it to be entirely an act, for not even a skilled performer could pretend one hundred percent of the time with one hundred percent of the people she interacted with. So, perhaps her purpose in Camelot was purer than first thought. Merlyn _had_ told him of the circumstances which drove her from her home, and he had seen evidence of an earthquake when he defended the village from invaders, so that part had not been a lie. The rest of it…

And still, their interactions. Her sincerity, his attraction, their _kiss_ … no sorcerer would desire one that hated their kind. That would be beyond stupid.

So she must be playing him.

A familiar laugh echoed up to him and his eyes automatically sought black hair, spotting her quickly near the entrance to the training grounds. She was leading her beast of a horse alongside a guard, who guided his own mount towards the grand staircase of the citadel. He was saying something to her, something that had her face lighting up and laughter spilling from her mouth. The guard looked pleased with her reaction, grinning at her amusement. He appeared to be, maybe, double her age, mid-thirties, but he might be called handsome if Arthur were a woman and could judge thus.

As it were, he felt a surge of unfamiliar irritation towards the guard, scowling at his figure as they drew to a halt alongside a collection of other mounts, some with guards, others with stableboys awaiting their masters. This was a knight patrol then.

Arthur's eyes moved back to Merlyn's steed and saw that he was faintly sweaty, meaning that he had already been worked. Why then had she accompanied the guard up the path instead of returning to the stables, which they would have passed on the way?

Several knights marched down the staircase, relieving the stableboys of their steeds. Leon was the captain of this contingent and he mounted swiftly, checking his men before ordering them to file out.

The guard mounted quickly and efficiently, Arthur disappointed he didn’t fumble more, then he bared his teeth as Merlyn dared to touch his boot. She said something softly and the guard dipped his head before he joined his fellows in their leaving. The prince was glad to see sleep rolls and bulging packs on their mounts for it meant they were to be gone for days. Days where Merlyn would not see him, whoever he was, and laugh that carefree laugh that always warmed Arthur's belly. It was a sound he had not heard for many weeks now, not since he had discovered her duplicity, and changed his attitude accordingly.

Despite all that, despite his sound reason, he found he missed it, like one missed a favoured treat when it was no longer available. He hadn’t realised how much until he heard it again and his heart ached like it was bruised.

Perhaps she was simply misguided. She cared for people so much and sorcery was a powerful substance – which was why it was so corruptive. Merlyn might have been desperate for a way to care for others more easily, as a healer, as a daughter, as a servant. She told him she had tried to stop before; that meant she understood the danger it posed, she just hadn’t the will to enforce her decision. Drunks often understood the dangers of alcohol but they were too dependent to turn away without support.

If he could… find some way to help Merlyn, save her, then things could return to how they were. The playfulness, the camaraderie… the flirting.

He watched as Merlyn patted Sunstrider’s shoulder then turned him to stroll back the way they came, clearly only having walked that way for the guard. The golden devil nuzzled her shoulder at they moved but laid his ears back at a servant who accidentally stepped too close. The servant backpedalled quickly, clearly familiar with the tales of the horse – as many people were – and Merlyn walked on, oblivious.

Arthur shook his head and turned away. He had stocktake to file for his father and he could only procrastinate for so long. He nodded to the guard by the door and stepped back into the stone behemoth, wishing for a moment that he was joining Leon on patrol. As much as he loved being prince and having the power to care for his people, his duties sometimes weighed on him like he shared the burden of Atlas.

Prince he may be, but in the end, he was only a man.

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Merlyn wasn’t sure how to act around Arthur now she knew he knew. Was she still employed? Should she gather his breakfast? Maybe she should wait for him to summon her?

“Merlyn!” Arthur snapped and she jumped, spinning around to see the prince in the doorway of the royal stables. She dropped her pitchfork like an idiot then blushed and picked it back up, holding it to her chest as she stared with wide eyes. The grey dawn silhouetted his figure imposingly, the sun barely risen above the trees. Arthur was rarely awake at this time, and never for something good.

“Sire,” she said nervously, unable to see his expression with the backlight. “You-you’re up early.”

“Didn’t sleep,” he replied, stepping closer, blues eyes tracking over the walls and horses as if checking for changes. “Too many things are occupying my mind at the moment.”

He looked back to her pointedly and she swallowed, tugging on the end of her hair anxiously and unable to meet his gaze.

He asked, “Have you decided whether to heed my words, or continue your path of treason?”

“Arthur,” she whispered. “Before you decide my fate, please, _listen_. Sorcerers and witches are not the same thing. Sorcery is a study, like you know, but witches and warlocks are born with their gifts. I have no choice to possess magic, I never have. My mother said that I was able to do things before I could walk or talk. I only learned spells after I arrived here.”

Arthur stared at her in disbelief. “Do you take me for a fool?” he demanded and she shook her head frantically.

“It is true!” she implored. “Ask Gaius. Ask – ask my mother. They will tell you; my first day here, I slowed time to save Gaius from a terrible fall. I did that without any spell on my lips. Please, believe me.”

“How can I?” he asked. “When all you have done is lie?”

“I have never lied to you, Arthur. Not once!”

“A lie by omission is still a lie!” he snapped and she recoiled, dropping her head.

“Why did you come to Camelot in the first place?” Arthur asked. “Why come to the heart of a kingdom that despises your evil and work under its prince?”

She chewed on her lip, watching the prongs of the pitchfork dig into the straw. Better that than meeting Arthur's accusing glare.

“Remember the tale I told in Ealdor, of the attack that occurred in the night?”

“Yes,” said Arthur after a pause, but she didn’t glance up to see his expression.

“Well, the earthquake that saved me wasn’t-wasn’t natural. I caused it.” She did look up then, studying his reaction from under her lashes. He was staring at her, dumfounded. “I was concussed and unable to think straight. I struggled against him but I was too weak. The man held me down and undressed me. He… when he tried – I screamed and it-it caused his head to explode, like pressure had erupted from within his skull. But I had no control; my scream echoed over the entire village, forcing people to their knees in agony. The very earth rebelled and my mother’s home was destroyed – by me.”

She looked down again, stabbing the fork into the straw with more venom. “Magic is not outlawed in Cenred’s kingdom, but it is feared and hated. My abilities were the worst kept secret in the village, but no one really hated and feared me until after I caused such terrible devastation. Mama worried that they would report me or attack me if I did not leave immediately.” She shrugged. “So I came here, to Gaius. He is my uncle and he does not despise magic. Mama knew he could protect me. It was only luck and fate that had me serving so directly under royalty. I didn’t plan it.”

“It matters not if you planned it; it is done. You live in Camelot and preside under her rules. Magic is outlawed, and you must obey or face the punishments.”

“But I cannot stop!” she shouted, frustrated. He was not _listening_! “I tried after the earthquake but my very skin felt like a static charge. I had to sleep with socks on my hands lest I tear my skin from scratching in the night. It beats in my blood, just as strong as my pulse, and I cannot stop one any more than I can stop the other!”

“I will not have your soul condemned by associating with the dark art!” Arthur growled. “If you cannot stop it yourself, you will find a method that will do it for you. A spell of binding, or-or a ritual or whatever sorcery is required to stop this madness! You are my servant and I will not have you shrouded in darkness or twisted into a wicked creature because of something you will not control. You may never thank me but it is for your own good.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, dread rising swiftly in her belly. “There is no spell that binds another’s. Such a task would be impossibly complex. Magic is a state of awareness and connection; it is intangible to our reality, incorporeal. I-I do not know if such a thing exists.”

Unbidden, the image of the Magical Cuff appeared in her mind’s eye but she shoved it down roughly. They were an abomination, potentially entrapping one’s spirit alongside their magic. She would not risk such a horrible thing, not even for Arthur's beliefs.

“You will find one,” he ordered. “There will be a way, even if it is yet to be created. Gaius is knowledgeable in the Old Ways; he will help you. And Merlyn,” he stepped closer, imposing in his broadness. But she refused to cower. “Do not test me when I ask for updates. I will know if you lie; I am no longer beguiled by our friendship.”

He spun on his heel and marched out. Merlyn leant against the pitchfork and simply breathed for a while, grateful no stableboys or grooms were present. _Well_ , she thought to herself. _I was right in trusting Arthur not to turn me over for execution. I just didn’t expect him to have me cut off my nose to spite my face._

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Gaius was greatly reluctant to research such a horrible topic but Merlyn’s pleads and the threat of what the prince might do if he refused coerced the physician into complying. It was clear, he did not try very hard, however, and had a ready-made excuse for when Arthur requested updates.

“Most books regarding sorcery and things alike were all destroyed in The Purge. Finding the appropriate material will take time if it is to appear at all.”

Merlyn could tell that Arthur, a man of action and intent (and impatience), was chafing at the delays. He ventured into several of the storage vaults, particularly the ones holding confiscated magical artefacts and ancient tomes, in search of spell books. That, in and of itself, spoke of his dedication to his decision, for she would never have expected him to knowingly hand over tomes of the _Dark Art,_ as he liked to call it, for the very study that he despised.

But he did, so Gaius researched, Merlyn tiptoed, and Arthur snapped and snarled and grumbled. And time passed.

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The Feast of Samhain came and went. Merlyn waited on Arthur from behind his seat at the long table, watching the small crowd ebb and flow before them. The knights were arrayed along the edge of the floor at their own long tables while nobles and wives sat beside them or moved from one platter of food to another. It was much more subdued compared to the usual feasts, but Merlyn supposed that was due to what the holiday was representing: a time of remembrance and transition – leaving the warmth behind to ready for the cold.

Contrarily, Merlyn always felt a little wilder during Samhain and Beltane, like the earth and air had awakened and her magic was gorging itself on the untamed energy.

Her every breath felt alive with static and she had the familiar urge to take off into the forest or dance to music. In Ealdor, she would disappear into the trees, weaving flowers and playing with the animals that were brave enough to come near. They, too, seemed a little more reckless, like they also felt the magic in the air and fed from it just as she did.

It was strange to be in Camelot, oppressive, conservative city that it was, and feel as she did but, thankfully, the solemnness of Samhain could be followed by a time of celebration, and what better celebration of the future was there than marriage?

Gwen’s pre-union stress gave the black-haired girl a focus for her restlessness, as the soon-to-be-ex-maid was fruitlessly fretting when Merlyn and Morgana arrived the next morning. She was unable to sit still, which made prepping difficult, and Merlyn was forced to sit on her lap while Morgana styled her hair into long, loose ribbons. They traded places so the highborn could paint Gwen’s face and Merlyn plaited two bands back from her temple to bedeck with tiny lily-of-the-valley blossoms. It was out of season for the flowers but Merlyn's magical touch on the forest glades had many flowers blooming out of season, if in smaller size and less numerous numbers. In a bowl, waiting to be carried, a bouquet of pink-veined white gillyflowers sat fleshed out with waxy, white stephanotis florets, the stark contrast in colours complimenting the wine-red gown Morgana had gifted her curly-haired friend to wear for the wedding.

Traditionally, commoner nuptials were a simple affair, vows spoken before a witness or two and badabing badaboom, they were married. Noble marriages were a little more pompous. It required a contract and dowry, and a presentation before the Altar of Spirits by a priest.

Thankfully, neither Lancelot or Gwen wanted too much fuss so their contract was a list of basic requisites; money, children, inheritance, infidelity, etc. They signed, the priest blessed them, they exchanged rings, hand-fasted, and Lancelot kissed his bride.

A cheer went up from the small gathering, Lancelot's knight friends, including Arthur, surrounding the new husband to clap him on the back while Morgana, Merlyn and a couple of the castle servants squealed over Gwen. The newly married woman glowed with happiness, a wide, white smile piercing her bronzed cheeks as her rich eyes glistened with emotion.

She clung to Merlyn for a long moment and whispered, choked, into her ear, “Thank you for introducing us, Merlyn. I will never be able to repay you.”

“Just be happy,” she whispered back. “That’s all the repayment I need.”

The gathering moved to the Celebration Hall – requisitioned by Arthur and Morgana personally – and the second feast in two days was brought out by castle servants alongside special bride-ale and mead. There was even a band for entertainment and dancing, which Lancelot took full advantage of. Merlyn gaped at the newlywed couple, spinning together like they were made for it and turned to Morgana, stunned.

“Lancelot couldn’t dance,” she stated dumbly, seeing the smug smile pulling at the highborn’s lips.

“He can now,” she replied, folding her hands together and straightening up proudly.

A slow smile stretched over Merlyn's face, delighted at the noblewoman’s forethought. “Well done, Morgana,” she said, nudging the older woman with her elbow. “It didn’t even cross my mind he would need to learn.”

“You were busy organising the honey wine for their first month,” she said and Merlyn smiled out at the couple, who were oblivious to everyone around them as they stared at each other.

“I am glad that everything has come together without hassle,” the black-haired girl said, sighing whimsically. “The day was clear and bright, the flowers undamaged, no emergencies to threaten the city. I want to believe it is because they are both good people and their future is going to be bright and strong.”

Morgana said nothing and Merlyn glanced over to see her green eyes unfocused and her lips pressed together. Unease churned in her belly and she gently touched the older woman’s arm.

“Morgana?” she murmured. “Are you well?”

The highborn blinked and turned to Merlyn with a faint frown. “I am fine,” she said. “Let us go celebrate. I feel Gwen and Lancelot have had long enough alone on the dancefloor and Sir Lucan has been watching you in that stunning gown.”

Merlyn blushed, eyes darting to where Sir Bedivere and his younger brother, Sir Lucan, were speaking. Indeed, the dark-haired knight with his chiselled cheekbones and square jaw kept glancing her way, and a blush darkened his sun-kissed skin when he saw her looking back, though he smiled hopefully.

Merlyn turned back to a grinning Morgana and shoved her lightly, heat suffusing her cheeks. The noblewoman laughed and stepped away just as Sir Lucan approached, leaving Merlyn to meet him alone. She clenched her hands together but smiled at him pleasantly.

“Miss Merlyn,” he said with a pretty grin. “Would you care to dance?”

Merlyn loved to dance. Why would she say no?

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“So,” said Merlyn, sidling over to Gwen as the new wife soaked within the castle bathhouse the next day. “How is married life?”

Gwen opened her rich eyes, a blush already darkening her cheeks, though a grin tugged at her lips. “Wonderful,” she said, glancing around to see if they had privacy. They did, as it was midmorning and most sensible servants were out doing their duty. As Gwen was on her honeymoon and Merlyn avoiding Arthur, they were alone. “Lancelot is a gentle man. He was very careful with me.”

She squatted down beside the ex-maid’s bathtub, reaching out to tug on one of the older woman’s wet tresses. “Was it his first time also?” she asked, curious.

“No,” admitted Gwen, not sounding overly disappointed. “He told me there was one girl during his nomadic days, Elaine, but she was wild and did not want to be tied to a man. I cannot fault him, for he was only sixteen and did not believe he would find love.”

“And he had some experience,” Merlyn added. “That would help him to make it pleasurable for you.”

Gwen blushed darker, pink tinging her skin, but she shared furtively, “At first, it hurt, but he was slow and allowed me to adjust. He found what I liked and – it was…” she shook her head, a blissful expression on her face. “It’s indescribable.”

Merlyn giggled and Gwen did too.

“Tell me,” Merlyn whispered, leaning close. “Is he… as well-endowed as appearances suggest?”

Gwen gasped, scandalised, and splashed water at her. Merlyn squealed and fell on her rump, wiping droplets from her face to pout at her friend. Gwen’s glowing face, however, answered her question.

Merlyn burst into loud, raucous laughter, the sound echoing in the empty hall.

"Well done,” she complimented Gwen. “Ten out of ten.”

Gwen answered by splashing more water at the girl, ignoring her apologetic shrieks until she was soaked enough to appear as if she’d dived into the bath, clothes and all.

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Winter came and went. Morgana’s twentieth birthday was celebrated as befitting a princess – which, as she was secretly King Uther's daughter, was a valid remark – and she gained a new handmaiden. Farah was skilled in medicine and sturdy in temperament, perfect for the highborn’s current needs, though it was clear Morgana missed Gwen. The new wife passed her time sewing clothes for the ones who suffered most after Sigan’s attack, as married women did not work independently and she did not have need of an income. It was fortuitous that Morgana was skilled in weaving and spinning so the pair often spent time together, labouring in Morgana's chambers, or visiting orphanages to deliver their wares. They were a clear favourite of the children, as Morgana would beguile them with clever storytelling and Gwen would teach them their letters. Merlyn didn’t want to be petty but she _was_ a little jealous; she had always loved children but had never been gifted much opportunity to surround herself with them. Ealdor did not have much in the way of a growing community.

When the snow melted, Merlyn sent an expensive letter to her mother, updating her on her life and wellbeing – though she stayed silent on Arthur's discovery of her magic, unsure how to phrase it into a letter and unwilling to risk the messenger reading its contents. Her mother sent a letter back with the same boy, apprising of her and Tom’s health through the winter and her happiness at the turn of season.

Merlyn was glad also. She hated the bone-deep chill of a winter’s morning; the biting wind that nipped at any exposed flesh. Gaius had caught a cold in the darkest part of the season and Merlyn had fretted herself into hysterics before foregoing Arthur's request and healing her guardian with magic. She did _not_ tell the prince that though, he was already temperamental enough.

Finally, the days grew longer and warmer and life retook the castle. A jousting tournament was announced and preparations began. Apparently, it was a yearly entertainment to celebrate the end of winter, though Merlyn knew not how it symbolised new life and growth as springtime festivals were usually wont to do.

“It’s a test of strength and endurance through pain, _Mer_ lyn,” Arthur snapped, moving around in his full jousting regalia to be sure it was still sound. “Winter is a time of fortitude through suffering; so is this tourney. Understand?” it was droned sarcastically, as most of his jibes towards her intelligence were said, but she gritted her teeth, as she always did, and ignored him.

“Looks good, sire,” she said in regards to his armour. He snorted at her assessment.

“Two of these buckles are wearing,” he argued. “The leather needs to be replaced.” He started stripping himself, ignoring her outstretched hands to dump the pieces on the ground. “Have it done before the rest of Camelot’s knights arrive,” he ordered.

“Yes, sire,” she sighed, following him until he pulled the last piece of armour from his body and dropped it carelessly.

“Oh – and polish it too, while you’re at it,” he added then swept from the room. Merlyn glowered at his back, always annoyed at the dull stab that his aloofness caused. She should be used to it by now, but somehow, it hurt the same every time.

Her longing for how it used to be was like a hollow wrenching in her gut, similar to homesickness yet somehow worse. She could always go home but she could never go back in time. Arthur would never not know that she had magic, and he would never not feel that betrayal.

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Arthur and his knights had a practice bout of jousting a week before the tournament was to begin, and Arthur was faced with some ugly realisations.

“It doesn't matter who I am!” he shouted at the knights, incensed that they would coddle him. “I do not expect any special treatment from you – from any of you! Is that understood?”

His friends hesitantly nodded and Arthur marched off, leaving Merlyn to hand Hengroen off to a stableboy with an apologetic word. The boy waved her on, hazel eyes watching the prince’s angry stomping with a raised brow.

She caught up when Arthur reached the castle and followed him silently as he grumbled all the way to his chambers.

“How am I to prove myself if my opponents aren't trying their hardest?” he asked as he shoved through his door, starting to strip his armour.

“I'm sure it's not happening all the time,” she assured him, rolling her eyes as she picked up his vambraces from the floor.

He turned back to her, annoyed, “So it's happening some of the time?” he demanded.

“Um,” she said. “No?”

“Now you're doing it!” he shouted, flapping at her. “You're telling me exactly what you think I want to hear!”

“Well,” she drawled carefully. “You don’t exactly leave a lot of room for debate.”

He turned away, not listening as he pulled off his pauldron and gorget in one big mess, and let it fall to the floor. “All my life I've been treated as if I'm special. I just want to be treated like everyone else.”

She stared at his back sceptically. “Really?” she asked, bending down to heave his things into her arms.

“You have no idea how lucky you are,” he lamented and she stared, incredulous, at his blonde head.

“Well, anytime you want to swap places, just let me know,” she snarked, turning to tend to his gear, as he would, no doubt, soon command.

“That's not a totally stupid idea,” he said but Merlyn rolled her eyes, not stopping in her march to the door.

“You are Prince Arthur. You cannot change who you are.” To herself, she grumbled, “Like you would want to, pampered prat.”

She didn’t linger to see the idea flash across his face, nor the spark of determination and mischief glint in his eyes. If she had, she would know to brace herself for an utterly ludicrous idea.

As it was, when he told her that afternoon that he planned to enter the tournament in disguise, she stared at him, gobsmacked.

“Are you mad?” she demanded, dropping her shoe brush to the floor. “That’s a terrible idea!”

“You’ll not dissuade me. My mind is made up. Find me a place a reside for the time of the tournament and a face to act in my place when I do not wear my helm. You have two days.”

She turned and walked away, jaw clenched. He didn’t want special treatment and yet he demanded it always.

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Merlyn found an old abandoned hovel in the back streets of the lower town, in fact, the very same shack that Mary Collins owned before she went rogue and tried to kill the prince in revenge of her son. It was common practice to leave such buildings to be torn down or abandoned, superstition and fear of prosecution by the King keeping squatters and new families away.

The prince stepped inside, nose scrunched in distaste as he took in the single room interior, coated in dust with a rat or two scampering at their appearance.

“You cannot possibly expect me to stay here,” he stated and Merlyn eyed the filthy innards with uncertainty. The shutters had been sealed and unbroken so the weather had not invaded but it left the house smelling stuffy and vermin-infested. The narrow bedframe was sound, though the covers were beyond salvaging, which also meant the mattress was probably gone too.

“It’s all I could find, sire,” she said, pushing past him and opening the two narrow windows in the house, one at the back and one beside the door. A faint breeze stirred up the thick dust and she sneezed. “‘s not so bad. I haven’t yet had a chance to clean since I thought you’d want to see it immediately.”

He shot her an incredulous glare and she shrugged, saying, “Better this than the streets.”

“The streets would be cleaner,” he said bluntly and she rolled her eyes.

“Give me two hours to tidy it and even your delicate, princely sensitivities will be satisfied, alright?”

He stared at her with narrow eyes for a long minute before finally conceding to her demands. “Two hours,” he repeated sternly. “And my replacement had better be here soon.”

“Yes, yes,” she said, waving him away. “Go hide out somewhere for a little while. Everything will be fine, trust me.”

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Merlyn gutted the hovel then swept, scrubbed, and scoured the soiled area. The bed was a lost cause so she took it to the salvagers then snuck up to the physician’s chambers for her old mattress in Gaius’ back room. The room had reverted into a storage space with her absence and she had a nostalgic pang for the times when this was _her_ place. It may have been difficult, but it had been straightforward. Now… now, everything was second-guessing and tiptoeing; bitterness and anger.

But change was always scary – particularly a perceptual change. She just had to hope that Arthur's good character would show through before their friendship fragmented beyond repair.

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The man Merlyn had found to replace Arthur between bouts – a friend of her mother’s friend’s son – was a cheery fellow and quite clearly not a noble. He did learn to act the part quickly, though, which pleased Merlyn and cooled Arthur's attitude. The prince handed him a lump of coins to stay at The Rising Sun and sent him off with instructions to appear early the next morning for preparations. William left the little hovel with his eyes bulging at the weight of the purse and Merlyn understood all too well his reaction. One gold coin was enough to drool at where they came from, a whole bagful was unfathomable. 

“Show no one,” she advised quietly as she led him outside. “And split the coins between several carriers. There are eyes in the city much keener than those at home, and with fingers much nimbler.” 

He nodded in understanding and marched off in his new clothes towards the famous Camelot guesthouse, the setting sun illuminating his brown hair richly as he reached the end of the shadowed alley and stepped onto the main thoroughfare. 

“Merlyn,” Arthur snapped, and the black-haired girl took a fortifying breath before stepping back inside. 

“Yes, sire?” she asked, trying to keep the weariness from her tone. 

He was reclined on the lumpy, narrow mattress pushed into the corner that had once held the old bed. The holes chewed into the walls by rats had been temporarily covered, though there were surely other means of entrance she hadn’t yet found.

“Get me food from the kitchens. I’m starved. And we’ll need some candles as the dark grows. Oh – and grab a blanket; you’re to stay here for the duration of the tourney.”

“What?” she exclaimed, frowning at him. “But I… there’s no second bed.” It was said weakly, knowing that he could care little for her comfort, but unable to find a better excuse.

Expectedly, Arthur scoffed. “You survived sixteen years sleeping on hard floors like a beggar. I’m sure you can handle a couple of nights doing the same – or has castle life pampered you too much?” 

Merlyn clenched her teeth, angry at his dig at her previous living conditions. Her mother had done her best she could with what she had; what did this arrogant pig know of struggle? “You’re one to talk,  _My Lord_ ,” she spat out. “You wish to be a commoner, treated without consideration? Well, here you go.” She waved at the one-room shack. “I’ll be back once I have completed  _my_  duties. I’m sure you can entertain yourself while I am absent.” 

She spun towards the door but Arthur's sharp voice had her halting despite her desire to flee. “Merlyn!” he growled. “While I may be _acting_ the part of peasant, you are not given leave to behave as you are. Remember your place.”

Once upon a time, she would have been able to snap back in a mocking tone or brushed off his words without reprimand. But not any longer.

She swallowed her ire, though it bubbled at a high simmer in her belly, and forced out, “I’m sorry, sire. Only, you demand so many controversial things it is hard to keep track sometimes.”

She darted out before he could retort, satisfied at getting the last word, even if she might pay for it later. The clotpole was living in a fantasy world. _Treat me equally! Give me special treatment! Oh, woe is me, I live a terrible life of luxury_.

“Give me a break,” she growled, marching up the long path to the castle.

She wished she could remember the camaraderie and trust they’d once had, but it was like a fading dream, overwritten by the harsh face of her new reality. And it stabbed like a tragedy.

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Arthur stared into the darkness that night, unable to sleep. The far wall of the hovel was dotted with thin strips of light from the cracks in the shuttered window, but that did little to illuminate the rest of the hovel. Not that he’d much want to see. He could hear faint scratches and scurries of feral animals in the night and hoped Merlyn had blocked their entrance into the shack. The last thing he wanted was a four-legged visitor on his bed.

He sighed softly, knowing he was going to regret his insomnia on the morrow. Life had been stressful enough without sleeplessness involved. His volatile temper drained him until he was exhausted, but he couldn’t help it. Just the sight of Merlyn, trotting around without remorse, seeming uncaring for the task he put to her, had his blood boiling with anger and mistrust.

Was she doing as he asked or was she lying to him when he asked for updates and he simply couldn’t tell, just as he couldn’t tell she was lying about practicing magic in the first place?

He listened to Merlyn breathing, soft, almost silent, and had the insane urge to reach out and make sure she was real.

He knew what his explosiveness was doing to her, saw the wary eyes that followed him, the careful way she skittered in his shadow, and he flitted between a sick sort of satisfaction and the acidic burn of guilt. He didn’t want the two of them to be this way. He wanted to return to how they had been – the way they were in his secret, whimsical dreams. Where she danced through the trees of the forest with flowers in her hair, laughing freely as he followed, as helpless as a moth to flame, in her wake. Where she touched his face so tenderly, cool grass against his back; brushing his fringe from his brow, running her fingers over his lips, tracing his ears, kissing his eyelids…

He scoffed to himself and rolled over, punching his pillow into a new shape for his head. What a fanciful idea. Even if she hadn’t stabbed him in the back with her duplicity, she was common born, a peasant. He could no more marry her than he could remain in this commoner life forever. He had a duty to his people and, once he had proven to his men ( _to himself_ ) that he did not need to be coddled, he would return to them. And, one day, he would marry a princess – one he loved – and Merlyn would be nothing more than the passing daydream of a lonely prince.

And with that, Arthur resolutely closed his eyes, and did not dream of eyes so blue they sometimes looked purple, nor of lips so soft they felt like silk against his own. And he certainly did not dream of curly, black-haired children with her kindness and his swordsmanship.

He did not.

( _He did_ ).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's a – slightly – happier chapter for you all. Gwen and Merlyn's friendship is just… fabulous. It flows so easily from my keyboard, and everything about them makes me happy. I hope you like them just as much as I do!  
> On another note: I'm hopping on my first racehorse tomorrow morning as a track rider, and I just – I can't wait! I've been working towards this since I started this job last year and – let me tell you – I definitely thought they were going to turn me down. They ummed and ahhed for MONTHS! Then they said they'd try me out but didn't give me a start – then! Then they gave me a date only for it to roll around and pass with nothing. FINALLY, my boss talked to me and explained what was going on, so I can finally be confident that I'm starting tomorrow. Like – I understand delays and unexpected circumstances but TALK TO ME! Honestly, that was what riled me up the most, not being told what was going on as if I wasn't worth the time. Communication exists for a reason, people!  
> But, anyway, rant over. I have what I want, I understand why it was delayed, and things are progressing as planned. Happy days! And this will not affect my writing as the hours remain the same as previous until I'm completely trained and then I'll actually have more time off, so rest assured.  
> On another 'nother note – I've almost completed this book. I'm at the pinnacle scenes that sets the stage for the rest of the story; and let me tell you… actually. Just kidding. You'll have to wait and see. ;)  
> P.S tell me if there's any mistakes as I had to chuck this up quickly, and wasn't able to read thoroughly. And thanks so much to those lovelies who reviewed! I know how hard it can be to sum up your opinions into viable sentences, so thank you for the effort! And those who left novelette reviews are simply fantastic. Thank you so much for sharing your opinions and reactions to scenes. I can't even describe how wonderful it was to read them.  
> TBC...


	4. The Fair One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen has had enough and Arthur... grows?

The silence between prince and servant was terse the next morning, though the tournament began without a hitch. Arthur defeated his opponent with ease and William left the tent to acknowledge the crowds. 

“I do all the work, someone else gets all the praise,” Arthur groused as he began shedding his armour. 

“Know the feeling,” she muttered, head bowed as she collected his vambraces from the floor; wouldn’t do for him to see her scowl.

“When I win this tournament, I'll reveal my true identity, get the credit I deserve,” he continued arrogantly, and she glowered in disbelief at his back. 

“Of course you will,” she said and something in her tone must have alerted him to her irritation, for he turned and glared. 

“Well don't just stand there. Help me off with my armour. And remember to polish it before tomorrow. The horse needs grooming. And don't forget to collect more lances.” 

She bit her lip to stop any retorts that wanted to escape, knowing that Arthur was goading her. She pasted on her sweetest smile and said, “You’d better collect some water to heat before it grows too late. We commoners don’t have fancy things like waterboys and bathtubs. I mean, there is the public bathhouse but you cannot go there since you are so recognisable.” She sighed, put upon, as she headed for the door. “Shame you’re not, I don’t know, a prince or something…” 

“Merlyn!” Arthur growled but, with a snort, she spun out the tent flap, rushing away before he could give chase. Silly, spoilt man. Perhaps this tournament might teach him some humility. 

She snorted again, shaking her head. If only. 

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When she headed back towards their little hovel toting a covered tray of dinner, she was stopped by Gaius’ familiar voice calling her name. A judder of trepidation zapped down her spine and she spun with a grin she knew looked forced. She had been hoping to avoid the physician until the tournament had finished since the old man was sure to disapprove of Arthur's strategy and she was a terrible liar.

“Gaius!” she exclaimed, wincing internally at her false cheer. “How are you?” 

Her mentor drew near, his eyebrow raised as he took in her nervous posture and covered platter. “Merlyn,” he said lightly but with an undertone of suspicion. “I expected to be bombarded with your presence while the prince was away. Care to tell me where you’ve been disappearing to?” 

“Er,” she said. “Well. The thing is –” 

“Do not lie, Merlyn,” he cut in, pre-empting her bid. “You embarrass both of us with your attempts.” 

She blushed and glanced around but the few people venturing the area paid them no attention. She said lowly to the old man, “Arthur still remains in Camelot, in disguise, to compete in the tournament.” 

Gaius was taken aback, both eyebrows creeping up his forehead. “Why would he do such a thing?” he demanded, and Merlyn scoffed. 

“He wants to see what it’s like to be a peasant since we live such easy lives,” she criticised then sighed and corrected herself; “He believes people treat him differently and wants to prove to himself that he can still triumph without preferential treatment.” she shook her head. “I merely hope it will teach him some understanding for his people.” 

“Well,” said Gaius, visibly pulling himself together against the odd revelation. “I thought it odd when you didn’t take off after him as you usually do. Now I know why.” 

“Please tell no one,” she pleaded. “Only you and I – and William, of course – know that he remains.” 

“What do you take me for, Merlyn,” he said, affront on his face. “I, more than most, know how to keep a secret.” 

She winced. “Right, of course,” she amended. “Sorry.” 

He pursed his lips, eyeing her in his usual perceptive way before sighing and saying, “You’d better return. I know Arthur dislikes you wandering far at the moment.” 

A humourless smile twitched at her lips as she said, “Understatement, Gaius, if ever I heard one.” 

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The next day, Arthur unhorsed Leon in a vicious display of skill, winning the poor knight’s steed in champion, as per the rules of the game. He strutted back into the tent proudly, thrusting his helm at William.

“Go on then. Your people await you.” William walked out and Arthur snatched the cup of water from Merlyn's hand despite it already being offered. “No one can say Sir Leon let me win this time,” he crowed.

The crowd outside roared in approval of William's appearance and Merlyn commented, “Sounds like the crowd have really taken to William.” She kept silent on her disapproval of how merciless he was to his own friend and second in command, knowing how futile admonishments from her were now.

“That will change when I reveal my identity,” Arthur said, handing the cup out to be refilled. Merlyn huffed a resigned laugh.

“You really miss getting all the attention, don't you?” she said, amusement hiding the irritation she held.

Arthur still caught her judgement and shot a glare her way. “Just go and water the horse, will you?” he ordered and she bowed.

“As you wish, My Lord,” she crooned mockingly, turning on her heel and marching from the tent. The guard horse, Galardy, was standing patiently by the tent and she gave the sturdy gelding a pat before untying and leading him to the trough. He dipped his head gladly to the cool water, the spring day warm despite the early season.

A bald man with rich, dark skin came up and praised the horse and her master for their jousting talents. He was nice and they talked until Galardy had drunk his fill and dribbled slobbery water onto her dress. She gave the beast a rueful sigh.

“Well,” the man said, his neatly bearded face stretching as he smiled pleasantly. “I wish your master luck in the final.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling back and the man turned, walking away.

She thought nothing on it until later.

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That night, while they were eating dinner, Merlyn's magical senses pinged a faint alarm and her head automatically turned towards the window by the front door. A shadowed figure was peering through the shutters, a small crossbow raised threateningly.

“No!” she cried as the weapon released with a quiet _thwintak!_

She launched herself at Arthur, shoving him down as a sharp sting scraped across her lower back. The arrow thudded into the far wall as Merlyn fell atop the confused prince. Their foreheads knocked together and Arthur's head cracked against the floor off the rebound.

“Ah!” he grunted and a distant shout went up from outside their hovel. There was a rustle of clothing as the cloaked figure ran away and heavy thuds as booted sentries raced after him. Both Arthur and Merlyn turned to stare at the window, seeing the gap between damaged panels that would allow for unwanted observation. Once the guards had passed and the alley was silent once more, prince and servant glanced at each other before their heads turned simultaneously to stare at the back wall where the arrow stuck out of the wood. It was small and crude, appearing more for a child’s arrow than an assassin’s weapon, but the implications of its presence was clear.

“Someone tried to kill you,” she breathed, rolling off his chest and clambering to her feet. The small of her back stung as the shallow cut was disturbed with her movements but she ignored it, knowing Gaius could treat it later. It only served to highlight how close the stranger had been to scoring a hit on Arthur. “Someone knows you are here and they want you dead.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. A red mark was showing on his forehead from where they had bonked together and she was sure there was a similar mark on her own; it throbbed enough.

“Don’t be – are you _jesting_?” she demanded, gesturing to the deadly shaft. “You were almost impaled by an arrow! You think that happens normally for commoners? Well, it doesn’t. We’re not nearly important enough to be assassinated.”

Arthur climbed upright and brushed off his clothes, though she knew the floor was clean, having scrubbed it until her hands were raw. “Perhaps the previous owner abandoned this hovel because of such threats and the cutthroat believed them to have returned.”

“The previous owner of this place was killed by me on the night I became your servant,” she snapped, and the prince blinked at her in surprise. She rolled her eyes and added, “Mary Collins, who swore to end your life after your father killed her son.”

Realisation lit his features and he looked at the wasted surroundings with new eyes. She continued, “No one would seek vengeance on her because her death was very public. This was meant for you, Arthur; this place is no longer safe. You should return to the castle and inform your father.”

“No!” Arthur exclaimed, throwing out his hands. “My father cannot know of my disguise. William would be flogged, at the very least, and I would never live it down.”

She stared at him, utterly gobsmacked. “So one man that you hired would be thrashed, and you worry because your _pride_ would be wounded?”

“That is not what I meant,” Arthur defended. “Of course I would not place one’s life below my own ego. But it does not change the fact that we cannot tell my father.”

“Well, we cannot stay here unless you wish to invite death,” she said, mind turning over possible locations. “Perhaps, Gaius?” she suggested tentatively, not really wanting to encourage trouble into the old man’s home.

“Gaius cannot be trusted not to inform the King. He is more my father’s man than my own, and I have no wish to provoke conflict between them.”

“Very true,” she whispered, trying not to think on how she had done just that by practicing magic under Gaius’ roof. It would help no one at that moment and only provoke guilt and self-pity.

“What about Gwen and Lancelot,” she proposed, already mentally apologising to them. They were both newlyweds and trying to start a family; Arthur may be a man-sized child, but he wasn’t their problem to deal with.

But oh, how she wished he wasn’t hers either.

“Hmm,” mused Arthur. “Not a bad idea. Lancelot can be my aid in hunting down this – this assailant. And perhaps I can sleep somewhere better than this dump.”

She glowered at his back as he moved to collect his things from beside the bed, annoyed at how ungrateful he was. He demanded so many impossible things and when she delivered, he did nothing but criticise. _Find me an empty house within a prosperous city, Merlyn. Treat me as a servant but not really, Merlyn. Make the sky rain sweet pasties and boiled lollies, Merlyn._

Arthur wrenched open the door, glanced out saying back to the black-haired girl before he strode out, “Come along, Merlyn. I don’t have all night.”

“Pfft,” she scoffed as he disappeared into the night. “What else do you have on?”

She picked up her blanket, pillow and change of clothes then hurried after the irritating prince, blowing out the candles as she went. She’d come back for the dinner plates and paraphernalia once everything was concluded. Goodness knew the prince wouldn’t think to perform such lowly tasks.

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Gwen was cautious when she opened her door upon Arthur's firm knocking, his long hood obscuring his features. Merlyn shook her head behind his back, exasperated at the complete obliviousness he exuded. Normal people didn’t knock like they were announcing themselves to the King.

The maid glanced out through the crack of the door to see Arthur’s hooded figure and Merlyn quickly shoved him to the side to ease the panic splashed across her friend’s soft features.

“Gwen,” she said, and relief overtook the woman’s body. “It’s just us.”

“Merlyn,” she breathed, though she glanced nervously at Arthur. “Is everything alright?”

“May we come in?” she asked, not wanting to linger where someone could see. “I’m sorry to impose, but we have nowhere else to go.”

Gwen immediately stepped aside. “Of course,” she said, gesturing them in and shutting the door behind them. “What’s happened?” she turned and jumped in fright as Arthur threw off his hood. “My Lord!” she cried, hand on her chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognise you.”

The expression on the prince’s face was amused. “That’s the idea,” he said but Merlyn’s attention was on the empty room.

“Where is Lancelot?” she asked with concern. “It’s late, should he not be home?”

“The King has put the knights on alternate shifts alongside the castle guards. He is being careful while the tournament is on. Lancelot is on patrol until midnight.”

“Perhaps the King knows that there is an assassin skulking these streets,” Arthur said to Merlyn, moving off to inspect the house. Gwen looked after him anxiously but Merlyn caught her attention once more, explaining recent events – including Arthur's bid to be a silent competitor in the jousting.

“That’s…” Gwen whispered, clearly unable to find the words and Merlyn nodded along, the silence enough to speak for itself. She wiped sweat from her brow, absently wondering why Gwen was keeping the house so warm.

“I know,” she murmured, keeping her voice low so the prince didn’t overhear. “He is deluded on the idea of peasantry. You know, he still makes me fetch him meals from the kitchens, and he has me cleaning his armour and waiting on him hand and foot.”

“Hmm,” Gwen said and Merlyn quickly moved to the prince’s side to stop him sitting on the only bed in the house.

“Ah – that is not yours,” she said hastily, tugging on his arm. “And we have not yet asked if we can stay,” she added and Arthur peered at her like she was crazy.

“I am the Prince,” he stated, as if she didn’t already know. She rolled her eyes.

“Yes, you are,” she confirmed condescendingly. “But as this is not your castle and you are not acting as prince tonight, manners are still required.”

Arthur glared at her but was stopped from retorting by Gwen giving a gasp and hurrying closer.

“Merlyn!” she exclaimed, grabbing the back of Merlyn's dress and parting the tear in the back where the scratch from the arrow was burning. “You’ve been hurt!”

“What?” said Arthur but Merlyn turned and tried to wave Gwen away.

“It’s fine; only a scratch, don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry – Merlyn!” Gwen cried, aghast. “You’re still bleeding!”

“Am I?” she asked, surprised. She touched the small of her back beneath the tear of fabric and felt the warm wetness. She pulled her hand out and saw fresh bright red on her fingers. “Huh,” she mused, feeling slightly dizzy now it was on her mind. “I didn’t feel a thing.”

“How did you – whoa!” Merlyn knees folded beneath her and both Arthur and Gwen jumped forward to catch her before she hit the floor.

“Whoops,” she said, fixing her slump, though her legs felt very weak as she locked her knees. She leant against Gwen just in case. “Didn’t mean that to happen.”

“Clearly not,” snipped Arthur but he was gentle as he helped Gwen move her to the table, ordering her to sit then gesturing for Gwen to fetch a candle for light. “Why did you not tell me you had been hit?” he demanded, crouching down and parting the tear to gaze at the shallow wound. Merlyn leant forward to give him an easier sightline as Gwen returned with a candle. Arthur scoffed when the flame illuminated her back. “It’s barely a cut,” he ridiculed. “Not enough to swoon over like a startled maiden.” He pushed himself upright and shook his head. “I thought you were better than that, Merlyn.”

“My Lord!” Gwen said, a little aghast, though it was clear she was trying to temper herself. “Surely it is a little worrying. For such a small cut, the bleeding has yet to stop. Is that not concerning?”

Arthur looked over at her then moved his gaze to Merlyn, but she tucked her chin, embarrassed at such fuss over such a tiny injury. “It’s fine, Gwen,” she mumbled. “Sometimes wounds bleed a lot for no reason. I’ll just go to see Gaius for some bandages in the morning.”

The maid shot her an incredulous look, but she smiled reassuringly and said quietly, “I’ll be alright, Gwen.”

The older woman clenched her jaw, but her expression was resigned. Merlyn breathed in relief. Prince or not, respectful or not, Gwen had limits to how much she would tolerate. The black-haired girl was not of a mind to deal with Arthur's sulking if the woman let loose.

The blonde knight sat on Gwen and Lancelot's bed, picking up the pillow and squishing it. “It’s been a long day; I think I’ll turn in. Is this my bed?”

“Oh, er, of course,” Gwen said, manners overtaking her honesty from surprise. Merlyn frowned.

“Arthur,” she said reproachfully. “There is only one bed and it is Gwen’s.”

“Surely not,” scoffed Arthur. “They are noble now. What noble has only one bed in their home?”

“We do,” said Gwen frostily and the prince blinked, realising his gaffe. “We have no need for what we do not use.”

“Oh. Of course not,” he placated, glancing around the upper lower-class building. “There isn’t much room to expand anyway.”

Merlyn closed her eyes in incredulity of how ignorantly rude he was being. Honestly, she thought she had taught him better than that. She wiped her sweaty face wearily and pushed herself upright, glad that there were no more dizzy spells. “Come on, sire, there are some sacks of flour at the back of the house. I’m sure it’ll not be too much for your royal delicacies?”

The jab at his pride was intentional and hardly subtle, but he fell for it as she knew he would, too easily offended by such slights.

He drew himself up and scowled at her. “I’ve slept in worse places than the floor of a house, Merlyn,” he sniped. “Or has your simple mind forgotten that I go on border patrols?”

“How could I?” she retorted. “All the grumbling and moaning you do as you try to sleep on the forest floor sticks in my mind like a particularly annoying tune.”

“I apologise that not all of us are barbarians content to live out of a hovel,” he snapped.

“Some of us only have a hovel!” she exclaimed, bristling at his second insult to her mother’s struggles. As if the woman wouldn’t have given Merlyn more if she could, as if she hadn’t tried her hardest in a harsh kingdom. “Unlike you, not everyone is born with a silver spoon in their mouth!”

Arthur opened his mouth to retort, clearly incensed, but the front door opened, and Lancelot stepped inside, brown eyes scanning the house warily before he recognised the people present.

“My Lord,” he greeted with a short bow then moved to Gwen's side to drop a kiss on her temple. “I thought I heard voices, but I thought for sure I was imagining it. How are you here, sire? I was led to believe you were slaying a beast in the northern villages.”

Gwen wrapped her arm around Lancelot's back, obviously relieved at his appearance. Merlyn felt awful for arguing so rudely in front of her, invading her home and making her uncomfortable when she had been so courteous.

Arthur answered Lancelot; “That is what the kingdom believes and will continue to do so.” The order was obvious, but Merlyn thought he could have been a little more gracious about it.

“There’s an assassin after Arthur,” she explained, believing that the knight deserved to know the dangers of having them under his roof. “We’ve already had a near miss, so we cannot stay where we were before. I could think of no one else I trust more than you two, which is why we are here. I’m sorry to intrude but until at least tomorrow, we’ll need a safe place to hide.” She stared at him pleadingly, but he was already nodding at the prince.

“Unquestionably,” he agreed. “I’d be honoured to guard you until this fiend can be brought to justice. You are welcome for as long as you need.”

“Thank you, Lancelot,” intoned Arthur, bowing his head. “That relieves me greatly. Now,” he glanced around. “I wish to be rested for the finals tomorrow, so I bid you all goodnight.” He moved into the back room, closing the billowy curtains that separated it with finality.

“Well,” said Merlyn. “It seems I’m sleeping in this room.”

“Come,” said Gwen, taking her hand. “Let me treat your wound so you can at least rest without bleeding everywhere.”

The tone of her voice displayed her displeasure, but Merlyn knew it was aimed at the prince and not herself. She squeezed her friend’s fingers to reassure her and Gwen let out a resigned sigh before situating her back at the table, ordering Lancelot to set some water to boil to clean the injury. Merlyn let her head rest on her folded arms and closed her tired eyes. A headache was gnawing at her temples from the blood loss or stress or whatever, and she longed for a sip of water to cool her parched throat.

She settled for letting out a long sigh and trusted her friends to care for her.

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The next morning, Merlyn awoke feeling terrible. Her head was pounding, her back was burning and her arms were cold. She was dizzy as she climbed gingerly to her feet, muffling her groans in an effort not to wake Gwen and Lancelot, who slept peaceably on their bed. Dawn was barely lightening the sky through the shutters, so she knew Arthur would also still be asleep, but she was feeling too ill to contemplate dozing off again. Perhaps her wound was infected; it certainly felt like she was feverish.

Gaius. She needed to see Gaius.

She wavered on leaving some sort of message to tell the others where she was but sensibility won out. They would know where she had gone if they awoke before she returned, and parchment was too expensive to waste on such superfluous messages. So she gulped down some water and staggered out the door, surprised at how shaky her legs were.

“Come on, Merlyn, suck it up,” she muttered to herself, holding her hands out to steady herself as she slogged up the hill to the citadel and her mentor. Only a couple of patrons were out so early; a stableboy and a baker, but they were half asleep as they trudged passed, too lost in their own minds to notice her drunken behaviour, of which she was thankful.

She reached the staircase to the physician’s chambers and had to take a breather, sweating and shaking and a little alarmed. Goodness, she hadn’t contemplated it before but perhaps the arrow had been poisoned. If the assassin was a good one, it made sense; for even if it wasn’t a fatal shot it was a fatal wound.

Gaius seemed to agree when she finally made it up the staircase to disturb his slumber. “Foolish girl,” he scolded as he examined the wound, the flesh having swelled and the poison stained a pasty yellow in reaction to her body’s defences. “You should have come to me immediately no matter the time of night!”

“I know,” she said, contrite and mortified at such a stupid slip-up. “I wasn’t thinking straight. I only wanted to find Arthur a safe place and then he didn’t seem to think the wound very bad, so I thought it would be fine. I was an idiot.” She turned her head, though she couldn’t see the old man as he was directly behind her scraping off some of the poison to examine. “Will you be able to find a cure?”

“For your sake,” Gaius said gruffly. “I had better. If it is not treated quickly, I fear it will cause sepsis of the blood. There are already poisoned veins running under your flesh.”

She gulped then squealed as the physician poured something over the wound that burned like a brand. “ _Gods and goddesses Gaius_! A little warning please!”

“Humph!” he scoffed but touched her shoulder gently in apology.

As her breathing steadied as the intensity of the burn eased, she laid her own hand over his. “I trust you, Gaius,” she whispered. “And there is always magic if there is no cure. I’ll not die until I’m good and ready.”

“Do not jest of such things, Merlyn,” he scolded softly. “And magic is not a be-all-end-all solution. What will Arthur think when you return with no wound to speak of? Perhaps that will finally push his patience too far. He already eyes me with suspicion when I give him updates. And I have misgivings that he has taken to reading through some books himself. It will not be long until he forces action.”

“There is still time to persuade him,” Merlyn assured him, trying to believe it herself. “All hope is not lost.”

The old man sighed lowly. “If you ever lost hope, Merlyn, then I fear the end would be nigh.”

“Then fear not, Uncle. That day will never come.” She smiled in assurance, for even with poison rushing through her veins and a prince spitting his own brand of venom, she indeed had hope for the future. If she did not then all she had left was the present, and that was not a place she wanted to dwell longer than she had to.

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Merlyn returned to the house with breakfast, wearing a blue cloak and using surreptitious routes to hide from possible prying eyes. All three tenants were already awake and drinking tea when she returned and she was thankful Gwen had not yet prepared a meal.

“About time,” criticized Arthur when she threw back her hood and closed the door. She ignored him as she set the serving tray upon the table, dishing out the plates to each person. Gwen stood and moved to her side, instead of accepting her food, she placed a hand on Merlyn's back, between her shoulder blades.

“What did Gaius say?” she asked and the black-haired girl gave a pinched smile, knowing her lies were terrible without preparation and some element of truth sprinkled through.

“The assassin was sent by King Odin,” she said, looking to Arthur, who abruptly stopped chewing, discomfit flitting across his suddenly tense features.

“Why would King Odin want you dead?” asked Gwen, expression worried.

The prince swallowed hard and placed his fork back on his plate. Lancelot watched him with equal concern.

“Because I killed his son,” Arthur admitted, the confession steeped in regret. “Odin’s son challenged me to a fight. I had no quarrel with him; asked him to withdraw – perhaps her felt he had to prove himself.” He shook his head sadly. “I can still see his face. He looked so scared…”

Merlyn leant on the table, catching his eyes with her own. “You cannot blame yourself. He was young and foolish but his decisions were his own, just as much as anyone’s are. You gave him an out and he refused. No more than that can be done.”

“It doesn’t negate the fact that I left his father childless and aggrieved. And it seems he is finally returning for vengeance, though why now, I cannot fathom.”

“Was there not a notification several months ago of the Queen’s passing by illness?” Merlyn queried, trying to remember the details of the missive she’d overheard.

“That is true,” Arthur mused.

Merlyn waved a hand in lieu of a shrug. “Perhaps, it ignited his need to act; he couldn’t avenge his wife since her passing was the will of the gods, but he could hunt down the one who took his son.”

The prince eyed her with an inscrutable expression. “Awfully perceptive,” he commented, and she frowned, glancing at Gwen and Lancelot.

“It was only an idea,” she defended. “I know not the ways of monarchs and nobility; sometimes it seems they act contrary to common sense.”

It was a pointed jab and he scowled as it hit home. “Well, it would seem that way to one as simple-minded as yourself,” he snapped back and she glared.

Lancelot cleared his throat and asked Merlyn, “What did Gaius say about your wound?”

“Oh, er, it’s-it’s fine,” she stuttered and mentally cursed her fluster. She spun away. “I will prepare the horse and fetch William. There is only a couple of hours before the final proceeds. You should eat up.”

She hurried out the door before anymore could be said and breathed in relief at dodging the explanation. Once the tournament was history, then she would share; no sense in raising everyone’s worry when there was probably no need for it. Everything would be fine.

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Merlyn watched through throbbing eyes as Arthur and his opponent, Sir Alynor, charged at each other on their steeds. She stealthily leant against the stands and tried to disguise her trembling hands and sweaty face. Her tongue was swollen, and saliva was pooling in her mouth but she had no time to be sick, needing to tend to the horse and replace Arthur's broken lances. But goodness, if she could just lay down…

There was the loud snapping and crunching of connecting lances and Merlyn jolted, looking up to see Sir Alynor’s lance spear Arthur's chest, glancing off his armour but clearly inflicting damage as it did. The prince was unsteady in his seat, his steed slowing as he reached the far side. She rushed across the list to tend to him, squinting at the other knight warily as she passed him by. His hit had been high and aimed at Arthur's heart – not illegal, per say, but not very charitable in a neighbourly competition such as this one.

Arthur staggered as he dismounted, and she swooped under his arm to support him as they headed towards his tent. As she was a little unsteady herself, they lurched drunkenly into the canvas structure.

“His lance pierced my armour,” the blonde groaned as he collapsed on the bench seat. Blood was welling from a hole in his chainmail, the links shattered from the impact – something that should not happen to armour as strong as his.

Merlyn grabbed a linen cloth and wiped around the wound, pulling a wicked-looking wood shard from his flesh. She tried to shift the armour to see if anymore splinters were present, but Arthur pushed her back, pressing the rag against the wound tightly himself. “I have to be back on the course within five minutes or I forfeit the match,” he ground out, panting. “Do what you can.”

She shook her head, William hovering worriedly in the background. “You’re losing too much blood and there may be foreign matter still present. Sire,” she beseeched. “You risk your life going back out there. Is pride really that important?”

“I have never withdrawn from a match,” he wheezed. “I do not intend to start now.”

“Please,” she whispered, eyes locked on his. “You have nothing to prove.”

“I have everything to prove,” he denied, staring at her intently. “To myself.”

She bowed her head, hands shaking as she bound his shoulder. “I… I could…” she gulped, already knowing he would refuse, but unable to remain silent about the option. “I know healing,” she said with emphasis. “I can…”

“No,” Arthur refused, grabbing her hand from where it hovered above his injury and dragging it away. “Even good intentions can start one down the path of darkness. This is my battle and I will fight it as a man of honour.”

She retreated, eyes on the floor and mumbled, “There is no shame in accepting help. It is the mark of wisdom to know one’s limits.”

“Not that way,” he said, pushing himself tiredly to his feet. “Never that way.”

Behind them, William watched in confusion, feeling like he was intruding on a private matter but unable to grasp how.

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Lancelot strode over as Merlyn handed Arthur his lance, helping him brace it under his armpit to give his damaged shoulder some relief. He rode off without a word and Lancelot bent to hiss in Merlyn's ear, “Sir Alynor is dead. The assassin has taken his place in the joust.”

“What!” Merlyn exclaimed, jerking back to see Lancelot's kind face pinched in worry. “How do you know?”

“I know Alynor,” he said. “He was not one to strike so aggressively unless there was a threat. He had no quarrel with the Prince, so his actions were unjustified. I peered into his tent and found him dead, already cold and stiff. The man the Prince rides against is the assassin. He must be warned.”

She rushed forward to grab Arthur's attention but the flag dropped and both steeds leapt forward, riders tilting their lances for action. Merlyn narrowed her eyes and saw a spiked barb protrude from the tip of the assassin’s lance.

“Not today,” she hissed and felt her eyes flash with heat a moment before the assassin’s girth snapped. Usually, a skilled rider could maintain some sort of control if a girth was damaged, their balance aiding in their steadiness, but with a lance in hand, such a disruption in equilibrium sent him sliding to the side. Arthur's lance struck his arm and both rider and saddle went soaring into the air, landing hard with a loud, ominous snap. The assassin didn’t rise.

She rushed over the arena to Arthur's side, his body hunched over the pommel and his lance dropped to the dirt. The jar of impacting another body would have sent agony rippling through his damaged shoulder. _Serves him right_ , a nasty part of her mind whispered and she stumbled at the bitterness evident in her own thoughts.

She helped him from his horse and they lurched into his tent, Lancelot taking charge of the steed to her relief. Gwen was already there, waiting for them with some medical supplies, which Merlyn took from her with a word of thanks, wishing there was a second pain draught for her pounding headache. As it was, she settled for pouring the one down Arthur's throat. He grimaced and shuddered.

“Your bedside manners leave a lot to be desired,” he groused, reaching for a cup of water to wash down the bitter concoction.

She would have rolled her eyes but they ached too much. “Blame that on Gaius. His touch is as delicate as my own.”

Arthur bobbed his head, unable to argue with that truth and Lancelot entered carefully, making sure no prying eyes could peer within. He bowed lightly and said to the prince, “You were jousting against the assassin, sire. He killed Sir Alynor and took his place.”

“Huh,” said the blonde knight then he smiled. “Then it is good I was able to defeat him.”

Merlyn didn’t look up to know Lancelot had glanced at her. She busied herself with unwrapping Arthur's binding as she said lightly, “The people will be waiting for their champion. It is time to reveal yourself.”

There was a moment of silence and she glanced up to see the prince staring hard at the middle distance. Then he said decisively to William, “You must go and collect the trophy.”

Merlyn was taken aback and a glance over her shoulder showed that everyone else was also. “I thought this was going to be your moment of glory.”

Arthur met her gaze, indecipherable emotions rolling through them like a storm. He murmured, “Perhaps this is a time for humility. I have proven to myself that I am good enough. I need no other gratification.”

A slow smile spread across her face, proud of his decision. “My, Arthur,” she said. “How very mature of you.”

He rolled his eyes and pushed her hands away from his shoulder, moving to stand. “I will have myself tended to by Gaius. You can go settle the horse back into the guard stables and explain to Gaius why there is not one, but two bodies to be recovered. Sir Alynor deserves recognition for his death.”

A little disappointed at his brisk tone, she dipped her head and retreated, smiling in passing at Lancelot. William had already left, the cheers of the crowd erupting loudly at his appearance. All was well that ended well, she guessed.

At least William had fun.

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Merlyn made it through the rest of the day before she collapsed into unconsciousness. Gaius had been intent on his research to find a cure, but all evidence pointed to it being incurable. He believed the only reason she had lasted so long was her magic battling the effects until it, too, faltered. Now, she was lost to fever dreams and unresponsive to the outside world.

Gwen was the first to find out, having been sent by Arthur to fetch her for supper. Gaius explained the situation and the young wife cursed her stubborn friend for feeling the need to hide her ails. “Merlyn, you foolish girl,” she whispered as she dabbed a cool cloth across her burning forehead. “Why do you let him tear you down so much?”

The unconscious servant didn’t reply and Gwen was left with a cesspool of anxiety and anger bubbling in her gut. She was angry at the prince for belittling Merlyn's injury until the poor girl ignored her own medical knowledge to appease him. Now she was unconscious on the medical cot, her very organs shutting down while Gaius worked himself into exhaustion for a cure that may not exist. With someone present to tend to Merlyn, the old man had disappeared to the library archives to gain the aid of the Keeper of Records, Geoffrey of Monmouth. She didn’t expect to see him until the next day.

When Gwen did not return home, both Lancelot and Arthur entered the physician’s chambers to see what had delayed them. Gwen made no secret of where her blame lay.

“The barb was poisoned?” the prince repeated, expression stunned. The heat of Gwen's ire eased in the face of his lost expression but it was still present and justified.

“She should have received treatment as soon as the wound was inflicted. Gaius may have found something before it reached this point.” The accusation in her tone was clear and Arthur, predictably, bristled.

“How was I supposed to know the arrow was poisoned?” he demanded.

“Perhaps when she almost collapsed last night,” she snapped. “You know Merlyn is not weak-willed or soft-sensed; you accusing her thus only caused her to withdraw. We might have been able to stop her from pushing herself today – given Gaius longer to find a cure.”

“Guinevere,” murmured Lancelot, coming to his wife’s side and touching her shoulder but Arthur waved of his attempt to calm her.

“No,” he said to his friend, face stern. “I’d like to hear more. If there’s something you want to say to me, don’t hold back.”

Gwen bristled. “You have no idea, do you?” she demanded, and the prince raised an expectant eyebrow.

“About what?” he prompted, and she stood up, facing him head on, despite the possibility of being flogged, or banished or something equally horrible for such nerve.

“About how rude and arrogant you can be! Merlyn slaves after you, day after day, asking for no recognition except your acceptance and you treat her like rubbish! She has risked her life more times than I can count – more times than you _know_ – because she believes in you, in who you can be. You claim titles don’t matter to you, but you behave like a prince and expect her to break her back if you asked. Saying it means nothing if your actions betray you!”

Arthur jabbed a finger at her. “You do not know Merlyn half as well as you think,” he snarled. “If you knew her truth, you would know she is nothing but a liar and a charlatan!”

“You mean her magic?” Gwen challenged, and Lancelot let out a hiss of air. Immediately, she realised her error and ducked her head, though nothing could have her take back her slip up.

Expectedly, Arthur was dumbfounded, eyes wide and mouth agape. “You… you _know_?” he demanded, glare flicking between husband and wife. Though Lancelot was annoyed that Gwen had revealed their secret, he stood by her as he met the Prince’s judgement. “How long have you known?”

The couple glanced at each other and the brown-haired knight admitted, “Since we met, My Lord. Merlyn saved my life, healed my wound to nary a scar.”

“I found out when my father was wrongly put up for execution,” added Gwen, deciding not to reveal that he had also been saved by the black-haired girl. One revelation at a time was enough. “I admit… I was wary at first. I am Camelot born, so I have seen the wickedness that sorcery can bring. But Merlyn…” she let out a soft laugh. “Merlyn is… pure. Her heart is uncorrupted, and her magic is as much a part of her as her breath. I could not accept that the kind, generous girl I had known was not real. So it brought into question my belief that magic was evil, and I realised for one to be true, the other had to be false. And I have not doubted since.”

Lancelot added, “The griffin that attacked when I was new to the city? It was being controlled by Nimueh; it’s actions not its own. Merlyn risked her own sanity to free the beast instead of listening to all those who condemned it as a lost cause. She succeeded, even though the beast was too far gone, but it showed me that her selflessness knew no bounds. She does not care for gender, species or hierarchy; if she believes in something, she does not give up. How could I give up on her?”

Arthur looked back and forth between them then dropped his eyes to his maidservant; to her ghostly pallor, flushed cheeks, chapped lips, bruised eyes. His expression wavered for a moment before it reaffirmed its stubbornness. “What you believe is a lie,” he murmured, turning away from them all. “Does Gaius believe there is a cure?”

Gwen’s breath hitched, and she struggled to maintain her composure. “No,” she said softly. “He’s heard of the poison but never of any survivors. The toxin is rare and expensive, so no one has studied it to find an antidote.”

The prince sucked in a deep breath and turned to the door. “Keep me updated,” he ordered then swept from the room. Gwen stared at his exit for a long moment before turning to her husband.

“Lancelot,” she whispered, voice choked, and he enveloped her in his arms. She buried her nose in his neck and breathed in his comforting scent. “Merlyn is dying.”

“She is strong,” he murmured into her hair, hands stroking soothingly up and down her spine. “I trust that she will hold on until a solution is found.”

“But what if she doesn’t,” she argued. “We should send a missive to her mother – tell her to come.”

“… No,” croaked Merlyn and Gwen spun out of Lancelot arms to see the black-haired girl’s lovely blue eyes peering blearily in her direction. They were glassy with fever and her breath was raspy, but Gwen gave a cheer and cradled the girl’s burning cheeks.

“Merlyn,” she whispered. “You’re very ill. Gaius is trying to find a cure, but you need to hold on.”

“Magic…” she wheezed, breath quickening as she tried to vocalise her needs despite her lungs feeling sluggish and tight. “Magic… _Fornimest_ … _Fornimest átor fram… Emrys_!” she gasped and her eyes flared gold. A white mist rose from her body like a pale spectre of her frame before it evaporated into the ether with a soft hiss. Merlyn took a deep, unhindered breath before exhaustion pulled her back under and she passed out. Gwen and Lancelot stared in astonishment.

“She just…” Gwen murmured, and Lancelot nodded, though his wife wasn’t looking in his direction.

“She did,” he confirmed then added wryly, “Even on her death bed, Merlyn loves to be the hero.”

Gwen snorted then chuckled, her laugh a little hysterical. She bowed over Merlyn's head, the girl’s pallor returning to normal and her skin not so hot to touch. “You,” she murmured to the girl, brushing the dark hair off Merlyn's forehead, the strands quite long now. “You enjoy stressing our hearts, don’t you? Throwing yourself into dangerous situations without regard for your life…”

“But somehow, she always finds her way free,” Lancelot stated, leaning down to squeeze the prone girl’s hand. “And manages to save the day as she does.”

Gwen wiped her eyes and straightened up, fortifying her raw emotions. “Gaius and the Prince must be informed. You take His Highness and I take Gaius?”

“Certainly, my love,” he said and gave her a sweet kiss on the lips before turning away. “I know just where he will be.”

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Lancelot stepped up beside the prince as he leant against the balustrade overlooking the courtyard and lower town. His thinking place.

“Merlyn is healed, My Lord,” he said in lieu of a greeting.

The blonde’s head whipped around, and he stared at his close friend in shock.

“How?” he managed after a long moment.

Lancelot swallowed and looked out at the city spread before them, so full of life. “Magic,” he said.

He felt the prince tense and saw his fists clenched atop the stone wall. “Gaius?” he asked.

“Nay,” he denied. “Merlyn.”

“What?” he demanded again, his whole body turning to face Lancelot with intrigue. Respectfully, the brown-haired knight did the same, meeting his tumultuous blue eyes without hesitation. “But she was unconscious.”

“She was, sire,” he agreed. “But she awoke not long after you left and healed herself with a spell. I do not know that she was even truly conscious, for she faded not a moment later.”

The prince looked away, scowling. “It seems she has become so steeped in sorcery, she does not even need to be awake.”

Lancelot licked his lips nervously, knowing he was about to tread on dangerously thin ice, but he couldn’t stand aside while his closest friends tore each other apart. “My Lord,” he began tentatively. “I do not know much of sorcery or of the darkness it seeded in this kingdom, for I was not born or raised in Camelot. But Merlyn’s skills are not something I have ever seen before. She did not learn sorcery as one would study a book. She has abilities that I am not sure there are spells for; it is as instinctive to her as walking is to us.”

Arthur let out an annoyed breath, taking several steps away before turning and saying sharply, “Not that it is within your purview to question the King’s laws, but my decision to separate Merlyn from sorcery is for her own good. I have heard many times over the past few weeks that her magic is intrinsic to who she is,” his tone turned a little mocking, “That it is as natural to her as breathing, as important to her as lifeblood.” He shook his head in disgust. “Breath and blood do not stain our souls or corrupt our hearts. You are right in saying you know little about magic. My father was forced to kill his own brother to conquer this kingdom because he was cursed by sorcery. All throughout my childhood, all I saw of magic was men, women, _children_ , perverted by its power, their very souls changed irrevocably by the dark whisper of its possibilities. Merlyn… Merlyn is my friend. How could I stand by and allow who she is be twisted by that darkness? How can you?”

Lancelot sighed, wondering how Merlyn could handle such wilful blindness with patience. He was already growing frustrated. “Merlyn was born this way, My Lord. If magic is by its very nature corruptive, do you not think that perhaps Merlyn would have grown into a different person than who she is? Could there be a chance – if you do not believe that magic does not corrupt – that if anyone can handle that power and not be tainted by it, it would be Merlyn?”

The prince appeared to have no a reply, staring out over the courtyard with his jaw clenched. Lancelot bowed his head in concession. “I’ll leave you in peace, sire,” he said and retreated, hoping that, finally, his royal friend might truly reconsider his beliefs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwen is the bomb! I love her to bits! In Canon Seasons Two and Three, she just has so much fire and shrewdness. I definitely want to keep that part of her alive in this. Anyway, so sorry I took so long getting this out. It was a struggle to put time aside to proof read it while I’m neck-deep in writing the rest. I’m trying so hard to finish this story in a timely manner so I can send out the chapters more often, because these next few chapters are definitely not feel-good, and I always hate waiting for updates when its during such a desperate situation. As it is, hope you enjoyed this piece, and look forward to more coming soon!  
> Also, riding is so great! I love it. It is ten times harder than I thought it would be, even with my expectations quite high. I’m only riding about three horses every couple of days (which should soon increase) while the others are riding ten plus a morning, but I am so tired at the end lol. Track work is a completely different world to any other form of riding. The style, positions, training, everything is just so unique to this industry, but it’s great. I look forward to my 3.40am wake ups now haha.  
> Hope all your 2018 goals are going just as well as mine finally is! Lots of Love!!


	5. The Nightmare Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana realises her nightmares mean more, and Merlyn is forced to make some decisions. For good or ill is yet to be seen.

Merlyn cantered Sunstrider through the early morning forest. Mist clung heavily to the ground but spun into little whirls with their passage. The sunlight slid through the branches of the canopy like splinters of warmth in the gloom, long strips of light slanting across the ground. The moisture in the air was rich with the scent of nettles and pine, and Merlyn's nose stung with lingering chill even as she breathed in an invigorating lungful. Sunstrider threw up his golden head in exuberance, long flaxen mane lifting with the movement, and let out a neigh that cut through the quiet of the forest, almost as if he were challenging nature itself.

Atop his back, saddleless because it had been much too long since either had felt freedom, Merlyn let out a loud laugh, her own loose hair blowing in the breeze their speed created. Several surprised rabbits and foxes darted back into the underbrush as they thundered past and, off the path, a herd of red deer disappeared into the fog in great, startled leaps.

This was peace. This was freedom.

Merlyn had been stunned when Arthur gave her leave to collect items for Gaius, citing that they needed to restock after winter. She had seen through the weak excuse – since Gaius was able to forage himself if he _really_ had to – and saw that he was extending a branch of trust. She knew not what prompted such a release on her leash, but she didn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, throwing her arms around him in thanks before darting off to tell Gaius and ready her mount.

He hadn’t even given her a time limit.

Eventually, Merlyn slowed Sunstrider to a relaxed trot, coming up to the shores of Avalon Lake. It had been too long since she had visited Skylark, the poor griffin probably believing she had been abandoned, and the black-haired girl was eager to see the young beast again.

Sunstrider snorted, dropping abruptly into a walk as his ears pricked alertly and Merlyn felt a grin pull at her lips. They were too close to the wards bordering the lake for bandits or brigands to linger so her stallion’s unease would be for a different matter; a predicted matter.

“Skylark!” she called into the trees. “Come here, my girl! Let me see you!”

She closed her eyes and pushed her magical awareness out, fighting against the instincts that rebelled the change in sense – _but there_! To the right!

She halted Sunstrider and called again. After a moment, a quiet chatter of a beak answered her, and she cheered, sliding from her steed’s back and tying his reins so he could retreat to a distance he deemed suitable without tangling. From behind a thick hardwood set further off the path, a black, feathered head peered out, golden eye tilted in her direction. She grinned, holding out her arms in welcome. “Hello, gorgeous,” she murmured.

Abruptly, the griffin leapt from behind the trunk and let out a shrill chatter, cantering towards her with her wings flapping in excitement. Merlyn was fine with it until she realised Skylark wasn’t slowing.

“Whoa, whoa,” she scrambled backwards, holding out her hands. Behind her Sunstrider squealed in fright. “Wai – _oomph_!” she fell backwards as Skylark’s head collided with her gut and hit the ground hard, air knocked from her lungs. She wasn’t given a moment to recover as the beast skidded to a halt over her downed form and ducked her head to rub her face against Merlyn's cheeks. Much like a cat would do to show affection.

Merlyn laughed a little breathlessly, gut aching from the collision, but she lifted her hands and stroked the griffin’s face, the feathers like silk under her fingers. Skylark had grown. Her face was a little longer, her body a little stronger and the wings that were still flared in her excitement were half again what they had been when they’d first met.

“You’ve grown,” she complimented, letting her love seep from the pads of her fingers into Skylark’s mind. The beast replied with a soft purr, deeper than a cat’s but no less gratifying, before they were interrupted by Sunstrider's displeased scream. Heavy hoofbeats thundered against the earth as the horse charged and Skylark skipped back with her wings twitching in unease, allowing Merlyn to scramble upright to diffuse the situation. She was flattered by Sunstrider's protectiveness – overcoming his own instincts to aid her was sweet – but she didn’t particularly want to be trampled by his goodwill.

She threw out her hands and said soothingly, “Easy, boy, easy.” Forcing him to slow as she stepped into his path. He snorted in displeasure as he halted, tossing his head, but allowed her to stroke his neck, ears pinned back and nostrils flared as he glared at – in his eyes – the unfortunate addition to their company.

“I know, I know,” she said in answer to his annoyance, patting his shoulder fondly. “You were hoping to never see her again but I’m afraid you’re going to have to learn to tolerate her once more. She’s my friend.”

She didn’t bother touching him with emotional suggestions as she knew he had enough awareness of Skylark to sort out his own feelings on the matter and surmount his instincts. Instead, she moved away with one last pat and re-joined the griffin, giving her a big cuddle around the neck and reaching out gently with her magic. Skylark accepted her touch eagerly and absorbed her communication technique with her own, less complex, responses.

It had definitely been too long.

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Merlyn returned to the city just past noon as dark clouds rolled over the sky. By early evening, a fierce storm was battering the city and Merlyn decided to cut her time with Gaius short to prepare Arthur's chambers for a damp night. The prince had supped with his father and given Merlyn leave to dine with her uncle, which she had leapt upon eagerly, yet, she didn’t want to push his leniency by slacking in her chores.

Arthur returned later to find the fire roaring cheerfully and the rich scent of strong black tea floating lazily in the air. It was a nice change to the ferocious roar of the storm outside and he slowed in his entrance to take a deep, fortifying breath.

Merlyn turned from her spot by the fire at the sound of the door closing and beamed at him, causing his belly to flutter unexpectedly. He put a hand to it, annoyed at his adolescent reaction but he was glad to see she was happy. He knew it was because of her escape from the city that day, having watched her bound down the thoroughfare towards the gate with her steed from his place atop the balustrade. He was filled with a primal smugness to know that it was something he did to bring her such delight, but he was careful to rein it in lest he allow it to influence future decisions. Fool him once, shame on her. Fool him twice…

“Here, sire,” she said, rising from her crouch with a cup freshly poured and he accepted it gratefully. She always knew exactly how strong to make his tea and he savoured the potent aroma rising with the steam. It was too hot to sip yet, but he let it warm his palms.

Merlyn returned to her place to add more fodder to the flames, asking, “Did you have a pleasant meal?”

“Hmm,” he said. “Father seems relaxed. There haven’t been any major incidences or catastrophes since the assassin, though King Odin didn’t reply to our invitation of a treaty. Still, he hasn’t declared war and there has been no activity on our southern borders, so I can hope he has finally laid his grievance to rest.”

“I like your optimism,” Merlyn said, smiling at him, and he found himself fighting not to smile back. Damn her captivating eyes.

A loud snap of thunder startled them both, though they were unable to see the lightning since the heavy curtains covered the window. Merlyn laughed lightly.

“I always worried during storms when I was younger,” she said out of the blue, moving to the window beside his bed and inching the curtains aside. He followed slowly, wanting to hear her story despite his better judgement warning against it. “Our village is small and our buildings threadbare; it would take only a well-placed gust of wind to tear off our rooves. But I didn’t worry about that.” With the orange flicker of the fire behind them and the sharp white flashes of the lightning before them, shadows were flickering in peculiar shapes across the floor, grotesque and malformed, like monsters stirred by the weather creeping out to snare their limbs.

“I always worried about the animals forced to endure the storm outside,” she continued, drawing Arthur back from his disturbed imaginings. “We had no shelters, nor even proper fencing half the time. Many a time there was a sheep swept away in the river or a steer bogged in a mud pit. I guess I still worry a little, but here, in this immovable stone palace, I find myself entranced more than fearful.” She glanced at him, eyes silver and orange as the contrasting lights washed out her natural blue. “Is there not something… hypnotising about the light spearing the sky like a trident? On the play of shadows and light within the clouds, like the gods themselves were at battle…”

She trailed off, gaze drawn outside once more but his eyes were locked on her, entranced in a way that had nothing to do with the storm and everything to do with the girl before him. He treated her like rubbish (for reasonable reasons, he told himself), scolded her, belittled her, accused her, and here she was, after all that, sharing a piece of herself with the full knowledge that he could take that piece and crush it beneath his scorn. But she didn’t wait in fear, or trepidation. She let it sit in the air and gave him the time to choose to do what he will. _Trusting_ him not to disdain.

_Naïve_ , a corner of his mind whispered.

_Hopeful_ , a larger part replied.

“To me, storms were merely an inconvenience,” he said, and she turned to stare at him, surprise and pleasure illuminating her features. He moved his stare out the window, unwilling to bear her attention. “Something that tethered me indoors or woke me from slumber. I was never afraid – never had a reason to be – but Morgana… she was the first person I knew to cry because of them.” A particularly bright fork speared the sky and they watched at it hit one of the towers across the training grounds, causing a deep boom and raising instant static in the air. A crack of thunder snapped through a moment later, loud and abrasive on their eardrums. “I remember the first time she ran into my chambers, two years my senior and still unfamiliar with our castle. She was embarrassed to find herself with me and not my father, but fear stripped her of her usual gumption. That was the first night we spoke as friends and not as strangers.” He let out a soft huff of laughter and added, “That was also the first time I realised girls weren’t as terrible as they seemed.”

Merlyn chuckled, nudging him. “Good to know,” she said. “It’d be a shame to burden you with a problem I cannot change.”

At that, cold reality settled over the both of them and Merlyn dropped her eyes, letting the curtain fall back into place and block the light show outside.

Arthur felt the urge to speak, to remind her that her… issues weren’t unfixable. If only she would help him. “Gaius has not reported any new information on his research,” he stated, watching her closely for hints of untruth or defiance. “He tells me that he may never find what I seek.”

Merlyn was avoiding his gaze, eyes tracing a pattern on the bedspread behind him. She said, attempting to be nonchalant, “Cuffing one’s magic is unnatural. It would make sense that there would be little or no information on it.”

Arthur frowned, finding her wording odd and reminding him of something, though he knew not what. “Cuffing?” he asked.

Merlyn appeared equally confused by his parroting. “What?”

“You said cuffing,” he said. “Why would you use that word?”

She looked no more enlightened to his train of thought and shrugged. “I don’t know, I just did.”

“I’ve heard that before, I think,” he said, trying to remember where. He had read it, he knew, but he hadn’t thought anything of it until Merlyn repeated the same thing.

Where had he read it?

He caught a minute flash of recognition on Merlyn's features before she tried to hide it, too late. He leant forward like a hound catching a scent. “You know something?” he realised. “That word… You found something in your research, didn’t you?”

“No,” she said immediately but Merlyn had always been terrible at lying when challenged. Her eyes were wide and shifting, and her breathing had increased.

“Merlyn,” he growled. “Do not lie to me. Did you find something?”

She opened her mouth to deny it again but stalled as her eyes landed on his face. He wasn’t controlling his expressions so knew he was wearing his anger and interest plainly upon his features.

“ _Merlyn_ ,” he snapped when she said nothing, and she jumped, blurting;

“Yes, I did! I found what you wanted!”

She clapped her hands over her mouth after she said it, but Arthur wasn’t paying attention, too caught up in absorbing the revelation.

“Tell me,” he demanded, grabbing her wrist and pulling it away from her face. She shook her head, eyes wide and he snarled in frustration. “Merlyn! Tell me!”

“Magical Cuff,” she shouted, panting with emotion. “I found a Magical Cuff that contains the wearer’s magic – but it’s bad, Arthur. It’s evil.”

“I thought you said that magic wasn’t evil,” he said snidely, furious that she had found a solution yet kept it from him after he’d expressly forbidden such tactics. “How long have you known of this Cuff?”

She shook her head again, clearly knowing he would be furious. He shook her arm from where he still gripped her wrist. “Do not make me ask again.”

She dropped her head and whispered hoarsely, “I read about it long ago, before you demanded this task from me, but I cannot make it, Arthur. It’s an abomination of nature. It can trap one’s spirit alongside their magic.” She shuddered, curling her free arm around her chest. “That would be horrible.”

“But it will stop you casting,” he said, dropping her arm and stepping away. He was a little stunned at actually finding a solution. The way Gaius and Merlyn had spoken, he’d assumed he’d been chasing ghosts, but to find out now there was a true answer…

“Arthur,” Merlyn said, her tone desperate as she reached out with the hand he had released. “I know not how to create it, but it is not meant to be made. Magic is everywhere, in everything – to cut someone off from that… please, Arthur, listen to me.”

“No,” he said, shaking off her hesitant touch. His met her eyes, hope and determination firing him up from within. “You have a solution. I will not disregard this gift because you fear change. This is a good thing, Merlyn. You may not see it now, but I’m doing what’s best.”

“No,” she whispered. “You’re not. I’m not a monster. I do not deserve to be shackled.”

“Merlyn,” he barked in an authoritarian tone, her fright eating at his conscience. “I’m ordering you, as your Prince, to make the Magical Cuff. I care not how. This will be done, or I will tell my father of your treachery and you will be burned on the pyre. Do you understand?”

“You wouldn’t do that,” she croaked, the wildness in her eyes betraying her declaration. “You wouldn’t condemn me to the flames.”

His ire burned at the inadvertent challenge and he barked, “I will do what is necessary to save your soul. You do not see, but magic will twist your goodness until you no longer know light from dark. I _will_ stop it; however it must be done.”

“ _Arthur_ …”

“Enough, Merlyn. I’ll not hear more excuses. You will begin immediately.”

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That night, Merlyn awoke with a scream on her lips and the sound of flames crackling in her ears. She managed to muffle it with a pillow, but the hiss and pop of the pyre echoed in her eardrums persistently, followed closely by the sickly-sweet scent of roasting flesh.

She spent several hours wiping tears from her eyes and swallowing bile in her throat before a door slamming open in the prince’s chambers had her bolting upright. Her door flew open with magic as she touched it and she staggered in to Arthur's chambers, ready to do battle.

She found Arthur shoving his legs into trousers and a guard exiting in a rush, clearly the one who had entered in such a hurry.

“What’s happened?” she demanded, approaching and knocking his hands away to tie the laces of his trousers. Arthur used the opportunity to pull a tunic over his bare torso, straining as he grew tangled in the sleeves.

“An incident in Morgana's chamber,” he said through the fabric over his face. “No more details than that yet.”

“Oh,” she breathed, worry shooting up at the thought of Morgana being attacked. “Then let’s go!”

“I would,” he grumbled, writhing as his arms knotted above his head, face still buried beneath the collar. “But this – _accursed_ –”

“Stop!” she ordered with a sigh, untangling his arms and pulling one sleeve straight from where it had been folded in on itself. She tugged the torso down and Arthur's head popped through the neckline, hair mused from his struggles. She would have shaken her head but the matter was too urgent to be exasperated at his inability to dress himself under pressure.

Instead, she grabbed a jacket and they rushed from the room.

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Morgana's curtains had been set aflame and her window shattered as if hit by a very forceful object. The highborn rested in another room while the facts were sorted, and the King wasted no time in blaming it on foul play, strutting from the room with a purposefulness that set Merlyn on edge.

Expectedly, not a minute later, he was crying sorcery and calling for a list of suspected practitioners. Merlyn feared her name would appear, but it seemed Arthur had other ideas. He waited until they were alone then interrogated her by the fireplace.

“Did you have anything to do with this?” he demanded. “Do you know who caused this?”

“Of course not!” she exclaimed, offended that he would accuse her of such unkindness. “Morgana is my friend. How could you believe I would frighten her in such a way! Do you know me at all?”

His face was stern, unmoved as he replied, “I thought I did, but we both know that was a lie.”

Her hand moved to her heart without thought, pushing against her skin as if to ease the pain within. “I am not a monster,” she said softly. “I am not the one who is acting cruelly.”

He drew back, jaw clenched and snapped, “I only act as I do because you cannot seem to grasp the seriousness of your actions. You court darkness and call it light.”

“There is no evil in sorcery,” she defended on a shaky breath. “Only in the hearts of men.”

He glanced away, expression inscrutable, before turning and striding from the room. He hesitated at the doorway for a quick moment before he shook his head and kept going. He didn’t look back.

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Citizens under suspicion of sorcery were rounded up and dragged to the dungeons – for questioning or condemning, Merlyn knew not. She watched from a window as two children were led in front of their mother, the guards firm but not rough, which she was thankful for. The youngest, a brown-haired girl of perhaps thirteen, was sobbing in fear.

_This is wrong_ , she thought. _They don’t deserve this_.

The innocent and the peaceful rounded up like cattle for slaughter; little hope left when accused of such a crime. Whether they had magic or not, they had done no evil; they had not attacked the King nor disrupted the peace. So, why then were they being put in prison? And why was no one defending them?

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Merlyn marched to the Physician’s Chambers with her mind whirling. Ideas, both realistic and ridiculous were churning in tangled lines of possibility, and she wanted Gaius’ opinions to help guide her true. However, when she neared the door, she heard Morgana's lilting tenor within and peered through the crack to see if it was a conversation she could interrupt without being rude.

She overheard Morgana revealing the source of the fire in her room: accidental magic. And the fear in her voice was clear.

Merlyn listened with bated breath as Gaius’ struggled to acknowledge her statement. He hesitated, fighting with himself, before he succumbed to his anxiety and placated the highborn with empty words and promises.

Merlyn slunk back into the shadows and gritted her teeth in anger. He said magic wasn’t evil, that it wasn’t to be feared, yet he seeded doubt and uncertainty within a struggling woman just so he wouldn’t have to admit the truth. Why was he not _helping_ her?

When she confronted him later, his answers were unacceptable.

“Morgana knows nothing for certain,” he said, as if that should earn her happiness.

“Which makes it even worse! She isn't sure what's happening to her and it's tearing her apart.”

He stared at her sternly. “And what would you have me do?”

“Talk to her,” she implored. “Tell her she’ll be okay. Tell her that her powers are not something to be afraid of.”

Gaius shook his head, expression set, if mildly apologetic. “I cannot,” he murmured, and Merlyn gritted her teeth to keep her temper. She understood her mentor’s struggle; being forced to witness friends and acquaintances be consumed by flame or beheaded by his King would traumatise to the deepest level. Gaining enough confidence to tutor Merlyn had been hard enough and he still reverted sometimes, teaching biology and medicine instead of magic when his nerves got the better of him. Risking everything for the ward of that same biased King would take confidence that clearly, the old man did not yet possess.

“Perhaps I could speak with her,” she began, to take the burden of responsibility from him but Gaius looked horrified.

“No, Merlyn, you cannot!”

She frowned at him. “Why not?” she asked. “I understand what she is going through.”

“You must never reveal your secret,” he lectured, starting to pace in his agitation. “Not to anyone.”

“Gwen and Lancelot know,” she argued, watching him move back and forth. “And Knight Ewan, and Tom, and Arthur! Things changed with their knowing, there was uncertainty and hesitance –” she ignored the echo of Arthur's voice demanding she sever her magic, “– but it is better to be truthful when possible than dishonest when there is no need. If not me, then who else is there?”

“There is me,” Gaius retorted, turning to her with a deep frown. “I will care for her as I have always done, as I have done since before you arrived.”

She ignored the pointedness of the barb and replied as evenly as she could, “Then you need to be honest with her.”

“What makes you so certain that you know better than me?” he questioned, and she put a hand to her heart, imploring as she spoke.

“I went through the same thing,” she reminded him. “I was afraid and tormented, misunderstanding my gifts. You, Gaius, _you_ showed me that it was not to be feared. _You_ gave me my control back, my light, my ability to help others. The Dragon may have given me a purpose, but you, Uncle, guided me true. Please, do the same for my friend.”

The old man softened at her words, it was clear on his craggy features, but the moment passed, and he fortified himself. “You cannot get involved in this. No good can come of it. I mean it, Merlyn. Stay out of it.”

“But –”

“No!” he growled, and she drew back in surprise at the vehemence in his tone. “I have told you this before, Merlyn. If you tell the Lady Morgana of her abilities then you are forcing her onto a path of your own design, not hers. I know you must be lonely, but it does not give you leave to manipulate those around you for your own benefit!”

Merlyn stared at him, stunned. “I…” she didn’t know what to say, completely sideswiped by his attack. “I didn’t…”

His expression softened, and he moved closer to take her hand. “You must not tell Morgana your secret,” he murmured. “You may live within the King’s city but Morgana lives in his pocket. Do you think she would be safe if she were to know the truth?”

Belatedly, hurt and anger rolled through her body and she jerked her hand away from Gaius. “How can you accuse me of thinking only for myself?” she demanded, hating the tears that sprang to her eyes. “How can you deem me so selfish?”

Instead of firing up in response, her mentor appeared exhausted. “Merlyn…” he began but she didn’t want to hear his platitudes or excuses.

“Am I lonely?” she hissed. “Of course I am! Do I wish for a friend who knows exactly what it is like to live in fear every day of my life, to have nightmares and wonder about what it feels like to be touched by the flames? Yes, if only so that I may have someone who can give me strength! But how dare you,” her voice wavered, and she retreated a few steps to regather herself. “How dare you presume to think that is why I would condemn another to that suffering!”

“Merlyn,” Gaius said, reaching out but she sliced a hand through the air in agitation.

“No!” she shouted. “I share everything with you! You should know me – _trust_ me – enough to know I would never act so selfishly! Morgana needs support. She needs to be told the truth, shown that her abilities are not a curse or a darkness to fear. She needs someone like I needed you. Someone to show her that it is a gift, and can be used to help and heal. I can’t…” she shook her head, still shocked by his accusations. “I can’t believe you think I would act for my own needs first.”

Gaius dropped his head, brow furrowed. He sighed. “I do not think you would,” he admitted softly. “I only hoped to protect you from yourself.” He lifted his gaze to meet hers, sadness etched among his wrinkles. “You try so hard to help everyone that often, you do not stop to think of yourself. Morgana's gift is rare, so rare even I do not know much on how it works. It is clear that it is hard to control, nigh impossible without training, and I know that you would not allow her to suffer alone were she caught by the King. _Merlyn_ ,” he whispered. “I could not see you burn.”

“Gaius,” she sighed, moving close to him and resting her hands on his shoulders, begging for him to hear her. “You must stop thinking the worst of things. Yes, I know,” she added when his mouth opened to argue. “Preparing for the worst is a good strategy, but not moving forward in fear of it will get you nothing but stomach ulcers and lost time. I know you suffered during the Purge, I see it every day in your eyes, but the future is coming, and I must greet it with the intention of improvement or else we will stagnate and decay.”

The old man’s smile was tremulous, and his hands shook slightly as they came to rest upon her shoulders, mirroring her position. He asked rhetorically, “When did you become so wise?”

She grinned back, a tear spilling over with the movement and darting swiftly down her cheek. “I learned from the best,” she replied. “But sometimes he forgets and needs reminding.”

Gaius sucked in a deep, shaky breath. “Be careful, Merlyn,” he murmured. “Morgana may be a friend, but her heart is not as pure as your own. Remember that she is capable of attempting murder.”

Merlyn tucked her chin, not liking to think of the time when Morgana tried to kill the King – her own, unknown father – after she believed he had executed Gwen's. She still did not know what exactly had changed the highborn’s mind, but she hoped it was remorse and realisation. To kill another human in cold blood had to be one of the darkest forms of evil, particularly such a close betrayal as father and daughter.

“I have not forgotten,” she said then peered up through her eyelashes to meet Gaius’ worried gaze. “But I also know the truth of her heart; she is so fierce in her defense of those incapable of defending themselves. She believes in equality and compassion… Just… sometimes she needs reminding that that path does not intersect with vengeance.”

“Nothing I say will change your decision, will it?” he asked, though his tone indicated it was more of a statement. Her lips quirked sheepishly at his resignation. He knew her too well.

“I’m sorry,” she said, a mite contritely. “I understand your caution, and I will be careful, but Morgana needs to know she is not crazy and she is not cursed. I can tell her of the future that beckons us, of Albion, show her that our paths are not bleak and fraught with fire and fear.”

“One misstep, Merlyn, and Albion may not be at all,” warned Gaius. “Morgana's gift is rare and her budding abilities with magic make her unique, like yourself. In all the ages of our land, never has there been recordings of such innate talents. It cannot be coincidence that the two of you are so closely intertwined. Beware the destiny that awaits you both.”

“You think I should speak with the dragon,” Merlyn realised, and the old man dipped his pale head.

“I believe it would be wiser than charging into a situation that cannot be undone. Listen to his warnings and heed his words, Merlyn. He knows more than any other of the intricacies of prophecy and the unreliable persistence of our fates.”

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Merlyn's visit with the dragon was less than ideal. As soon as she shared her intent to reveal herself to Morgana, the golden beast rose up with a roar of disapproval.

“That enchantress must never discover your magic, Merlyn!” he thundered, the intensity of his ire causing his breath to wash hotly over her skin, her eyes watering against the burning temperature. “She must never know your secrets.”

Merlyn was stunned by the strength of his denial, momentarily speechless before she regathered her wits. “Morgana is my friend,” she argued. “And she is need of guidance. Why should I not help her?"

“That _seer_ is not your friend,” the dragon growled. “Just as the druid boy is Arthur's doom, _she_ may very well be yours. It would be best if the enchantress never knows her full potential.”

“How can Morgana be my downfall?” Merlyn demanded, taken aback by such a concept. “She struggles with darker temptations, just as many do, but she is not evil, and she would not hurt me.”

“You are but one part of a greater puzzle, young witch,” the dragon intoned, voice heavy with knowledge. “And you cannot know the true image until it is complete. Heed my words; if the enchantress learns of your powers then you condemn Albion to fall.”

Slowly, the black-haired girl shook her head, shaken by the promise in his words. He sounded so certain, so resolute that there was only one path. But Merlyn couldn’t live like that. She couldn’t go through her days believing that their road was already paved, their stories already written. If that was so, then what did choices matter? What did that mean for free will?

“I cannot believe that,” she said firmly. “Whatever you think she may be, whatever you fear she will become, Morgana is not that person yet. I must believe in the freedom of choice, in laying our own paths, or my life does not matter; none of our lives matter.”

“And yet, you work so hard for the future that is written in prophecy,” he retorted. “If you do not believe in Albion, why do you work so hard for its fruition?”

“I believe in the efforts of hard work!” she shouted, angry he would try to twist her mind. “And I believe that one’s _destiny_ does not take away our right to choose our future. Morgana is troubled, and without guidance, she _may_ fall to darkness, but I will not live as if that is her only road. _I_ will guide her and teach her. I will show her the promise of tomorrow; the union of a land ruled by a just and kind king, where magic is not feared but accepted.”

"You do not understand the risks you are taking, Merlyn," the dragon warned, nostrils puffing a bit of smoke to mark his displeasure. "Your decisions do not affect only you. If you choose to do this, you force every creature in this land to deal with the consequences. I did not know you were so selfish.”

“You know what?” Merlyn snapped, jabbing an irritated finger at the golden reptile. “I am so sick of everyone accusing me of one thing or another when all I’m trying to do is help my friend. What about you, Dragon, huh? What about your selfishness? Would you care for me at all if I did not further your ends? Would you care about what happened to Arthur if he was not the one to build Albion? Do not accuse me of selfishness when you have _no right_ to do so!”

Two golden eyes glared at her in anger and the dragon pushed himself to his clawed feet. He flared his wings and snapped, “If you will not listen to reason then I cannot help you.” And he leapt into the air, massive wings carrying him away with a feeling of finality.

Merlyn watched him go, a little contrite with her temper but not regretting her words, even if it could have been phrased better. The dragon had a lot of pride and being scolded by a creature one hundredth of his size, and who knew how many hundredths of his age had to sting. But what was done was done, and Merlyn's decision was made.

She was going to tell Morgana she had magic.

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Merlyn spent the rest of the day preparing herself for her approach. In the safety of her room, doors locked, she cleaned Arthur's armour with magic while she browsed her special book for information that might help Morgana, or that she might be curious about. She also practiced a speech, reciting phrases that she wanted to share with the highborn, trying to capture the heart of what she wanted to express, but the nerves fraying at her composure tripped her words into inarticulate rubbish. Her belly felt liable to explode from the butterflies assaulting her insides.

She whiled away hours in her small room and was only interrupted when the faint sounds of disturbances in the courtyard grew too loud to ignore. She stepped into Arthur's bedchambers and approached the window facing the courtyard to peer out to see lines of citizens being escorted into the castle by guards. Some were struggling, others were numb with shock, yet more were crying and shouting, cursing and denying. They had the most guards, physically dragged into the bowels of the citadel to face a trial that would do them no favours.

One of the quiet ones, a brown-haired, pale-skinned man, looked up and his gaze found hers.

Instantly, she knew he, at least, was affiliated with magic, for his eyes recognised her as more than Arthur's servant. The whisper of _Emrys_ caressed her ear before the moment was broken and the brown-haired man was nudged out of sight, through a door to the right of the grand staircase that led directly into the dungeons.

Merlyn turned away, breath heavy. There was no maliciousness on his face, no expectation in his stare, but she knew she could not let him and all those people suffer a fate not of their own doing. None of them had tried to attack Camelot, even if they were magical. These were the people who needed to live; the ones who only wanted peace, only wanted to go about their day without censure. These people were what would _make_ Albion.

Merlyn thumped her head back against the window frame and let out a deep sigh. Arthur was going to hate her even more.

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“Hello,” Merlyn said softly when Morgana opened her chamber door. She looked exhausted, skin pale, eyes bruised, hair untended and purple nightdress rumpled. Farah, her new maidservant, was not present. “How are you feeling?”

The highborn gave a weary smile and leant against the door as she granted Merlyn access, shutting it quietly behind her. “I feel as if visions linger behind my eyelids, waiting to terrorise me the moment I rest.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Merlyn murmured, clutching a cloth-covered parcel to her chest. “Not understanding what is happening is a terrible type of fear. But,” she added, meeting Morgana's anxious eyes. “I hope I may ease some of your troubles.”

She held out the object in her arms and, quizzically, the older woman took it from her. With prompting, she unwrapped the faded red cloth and stared at the roughly bound manuscript in her arms. Merlyn had duplicated pages of information from her magic book and sewed the parchment together after a quick study on bookbinding. It was very basic with no hardcover or heading, but the black-haired girl suspected her friend would be more interested in its contents than its appearance once she understood its significance.

Merlyn swallowed her nerves and said, “Fear is a powerful emotion. It can strip us of our control and our strength. When we face it alone, we are just as likely to succumb to it as to conquer. I would not wish for you to become its prey, Morgana.” The noblewoman lifted her eyes from the parchment to stare at Merlyn, wariness evident in her hesitant features. The black-haired girl smiled, a mite nervously.

“I have been keeping something from you,” she continued, rubbing her hands together and letting the repetitive motion across her palms soothe her anxiousness. “To protect myself as much as to protect you, but I feel it is now harming more than helping. I would not see you suffer alone, believing yourself mad, or possessed.”

“Gaius told you of our conversation,” Morgana stated, a trickle of betrayal layering her words. Merlyn was quick to shake her head.

“No,” she denied. “He would never…. No… I’m afraid I eavesdropped.” She ducked her head, rueful. “It was rude and invasive, but I do not come to judge or seek apology; I come to help you.”

“How can you help me?” Morgana demanded. “Gaius has tried every remedy he knows to save me from this affliction and all of them fail!”

“That is true,” Merlyn agreed, stepping closer. “There is no remedy he or I know that will stop these nightmares from occurring. But I do not come to stop them. I come with knowledge.”

She touched the top of the booklet and said, “This is information on magic and spells.” Morgana's eyes widened, stunned. “It has information on how to cast, on the laws of magic, and some basics on the Old Religion. It… also has a page or two dedicated to what little knowledge there is about Seers: people who can foresee events not yet passed.”

“Like… like the Romani fortune tellers?” the woman asked in a tentative tone, as if she was couldn’t believe there might be others like herself.

“Similar,” agreed Merlyn. “But Seers do not need a vessel to carry their visions. I’m afraid there is not enough information to sate your curiosity or help you control your gifts, but it is a starting point. And it means you aren’t alone.”

“Merlyn,” Morgana breathed, shaking her head in disbelief. “This is… how came you by this?”

“It was given to me by a trusted friend, to help me understand myself and defeat the fear that plagued my mind.”

The black-haired girl watched a variety of emotions flit across the noblewoman’s strained features: confusion, disbelief, fear, hope, uncertainty.

“You… you have…?”

She appeared too afraid to say it so Merlyn finished softly, “Magic, yes.” She smiled reassuringly. “Like you, I did not choose my gifts. I was born with the ability to do impossible things, and for that, I was forced to live in secrecy. My mother reminded me that my abilities were not to be feared, even if others might fear them. Will, my first friend, showed me that even if some might fear, not all would, and acceptance could be found through trust. I was lucky; I had love, friendship, guidance… I know many are taught to suppress. To hate. To condemn…”

Morgana's lovely green orbs were filled with tears, though a none yet escaped her lashes. “You believe I have magic?” she asked, sounding terrified.

“Whether you do or you do not, you have a gift beyond the understanding of science. But, Morgana,” she gripped the woman’s hand where it held the booklet. “It is not to be feared or hated. Just because people can use it to do evil does not mean it itself is evil. Magic is a tool and must be wielded with the upmost care, with the upmost vigilance. It cannot be used selfishly for it _can_ corrupt. Such power so easily grasped, so easily directed, makes it easy to abuse. It is so tempting… if I do this, or I do that, I can save all this heartache, all this suffering. But you must give people the freedom to make their own decisions. If we take that away, then we become the very monsters they fear us to be. And that does nothing but feed the cycle of hate and oppression that plagues this land.” She kept her gaze locked on Morgana's, purposeful with her intent. If she was to save the troubled woman from her fate, then she needed to impress upon her the dangers that existed.

“Do you understand, Morgana?” she asked, knowing she was unnerving the highborn. “To keep the goodness in your heart, you must think only of helping others. You must use it with respect and love; that is the only way you can be sure you won’t fall to darkness.”

The green-eyed woman nodded quickly. “I understand,” she said. “I don’t want to become the monster that Uther thinks they are. I want to prove to him that he’s wrong.”

“He cannot know,” she said, fear spiking through her chest. “He can never know what we are.”

Morgana's features scrunched in frustration. “How can we change things if we cannot show Uther that he is wrong about us? I am tired of this fear and this-this _insanity_! I want to live in peace!”

“There is hope,” Merlyn assured her, not liking how quickly she grew aggravated. When Morgana grew angry, she grew impulsive. “There is a prophecy written long ago that depicts a land of unity and freedom, where sorcerers and kings live in harmony.”

“Prophecy?” Morgana parroted, distracted from her temper. “Like what I see?”

“I think so,” she replied, hating that she lacked the knowledge to answer her queries properly.

“But my visions are so confusing. I can barely make sense of them, let alone interpret them for others to understand.”

Merlyn shrugged. “If sorcery can be trained and cultivated then why not divination?”

“Then there must be someone out there who can help me stop this,” Morgana realised, hope brightening her features. “Someone who understands my powers. You must tell me where!”

Merlyn shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I do not know.”

“But I will find out,” the highborn declared. “Another sorcerer might know. Those people in the dungeons – they are magical or are in contact with sorcerers. They can give me answers.”

She stepped towards the door as if to head to the dungeons immediately, but Merlyn quickly grabbed her arm. “You can’t go down there,” she said. “You are the King’s ward.”

“They have answers I seek,” Morgana argued, shaking her arm loose. “You have no idea what it is like, night after night, wondering if this time, when I sleep, my dreams will be a web of terrible things that I cannot escape until I have seen what I must. You do not know the madness I battle and the darkness that chokes me. You may be magical, Merlyn, but you are not cursed as I am.”

“You are right,” Merlyn agreed, holding up her hands as she stepped into Morgana's path. “I don’t know the struggles you are tormented by, for everyone lives with different demons. But comparing troubles like they are a thing to be measured is wrong. I cannot know how you suffer, Morgana, because I am not you. But remember; you are _fighting_ your demons. And you are _winning_. Every moment you beat back that despair and that loneliness is a victory to be celebrated. That, more than anything else, gives credence to your character. You are strong, and you are smart. And I need you to employ those traits and temper your impulsiveness. The King cannot know the truth about us.”

The older woman deflated, fingers tightening around the manuscript she still cradled. “I hunger for answers, Merlyn,” she said, her tone pleading. “For so long, I thought I was going mad, prescribed drug after drug that failed to work. Besieged by these horrible images, wondering how my imagination could conjure such awful things. Now you tell me there are people out there like me, who can help me? Please, _please_ , let me find them.”

“I will,” soothed Merlyn, heart aching for the pain the other woman was weathering. “And I will help you, but charging down to a restricted area will gain you nothing but suspicion.”

“But they are to be executed tomorrow,” Morgana whispered hoarsely. “They are all to be executed for a crime they did not commit.”

“No, they’re not,” murmured Merlyn. “Tonight, after shift change at midnight, there is going to be a fire in the Embassy Wing, large enough that it will require the attention of many people. During that fire, the dungeon is going to be breached and the prisoners escape. They will flee the city and not be seen by the King again. If there is time, during that escape, I will ask questions. But only if there is time.”

Morgana was stunned, disbelief and awe slackening her features. Merlyn grinned crookedly at the expression; though she was not a scholar or a wisewoman, she would try to teach and guide Morgana as Gaius did to her. It was the least she could do for a friend tormented by the cruelty of an unwanted destiny.

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That night, thirty minutes after the midnight toll, smoke began pouring along the empty corridors of the Embassy Wing. The patrol that stumbled upon it was quick to sound the alarm and soon, the castle was in a frenzy trying to quench the flames. Meanwhile, a red-cloaked figure descended the staircase to the dungeons and blew sleeping powder into the faces of the two men that guarded the cells. They collapsed, not expected to rise until dawn, and the figure ghosted to the bars. She wasted no time unlocking the gates, watching as the frightened people inside rose to their feet warily, hesitant to approach the unknown addition.

“My name is Emrys,” she intoned in her spelled voice. “I have come to take you to safety.”

The brown-haired man from earlier that day stepped forward, bowing low. “It is an honour, Emrys,” he said. “But you put yourself at great risk to be here.”

“As did you all to remain in Camelot,” she replied. “Yet you lingered, living your lives without hostility. How can you expect me to stand aside and allow you to perish?”

“And just who are you, _Emrys_?” demanded a woman in a cutting tone. Merlyn glanced to her left to see a blonde woman with full lips and fiery blue eyes glaring at her mistrustfully.

Another spoke up, an adolescent boy, and Merlyn's heart ached for his youth. “She is the prophesised one,” he defended, stepping forward from behind the blonde. “She is the one who will help the Once and Future King unite our land and free magic.”

“ _Albion_ ,” someone breathed and there was an exhale of awe from many people within the cells. Merlyn was surprised that so many knew of the future written but it gave her a new appreciation of the power of hope. Why _would_ these people grow bitter and angry when they understood a new age was coming? Why would they act to end a reign of terror when they knew it was to be done in a way that would have magic understood, not hated?

“Albion may be a land of unity and tolerance,” she said. “But it is not yet come to pass. In this land still ruled by fear, I will not stand by and watch my kin burn. Come with me now,” she urged, turning towards to the hallway. “I will show you the way from the city.”

“What about our homes? Our livelihoods?” asked the mother of the two children, crouched together in a sad little huddle.

“I’m sorry,” she apologised softly. “You must find a new home. You cannot return here while Uther is still king.”

 The woman gave a quiet sob and her son, perhaps fourteen, wrapped his arms around her in a hug.

“Come,” Merlyn urged and moved away, hoping they would follow. There was a discordant scrape of people climbing to their feet and the faint groan of hinges moving against metal. Quickly, the patter of two dozen feet could be heard trailing in her wake.

Her heart swelled at the show of trust, though, admittedly, they had little other option than to await execution. But it warmed her nonetheless.

She led them faithfully through the same route Arthur used when liberating Mordred, though it was a little more difficult with so many people. Thankfully, with the fire drawing all the guards’ attentions to the far side of the castle, she managed to lead them with only a handful of interruptions; namely, three unconscious guards and two unwitting servants. Merlyn was never more grateful for spells than during those confrontations, as it gave her an edge over her opponents without needing to harm them unduly. Unfortunately, her ability to slow time was still misbehaving from when she saved Gwen’s father, Tom, and she had to rely on quick reflexes instead.

Alwyn, the brown-haired druid, and Forridel, the mistrusting blonde, were great companions in keeping the group moving and quiet. Forridel was a bit blunt, hissing at them to shut up when they whispered to each other, but once she decided to follow Merlyn, she did so without question.

They made it through the burial vaults and out of the tunnel that led beyond the city walls. Merlyn melted the concrete holding the bars in place and pushed it off its frame quietly, not wanting to draw attention from the parapet sentries over the rise. There, several sacks of food were waiting, spelled to ward off pests, and she passed them off to Forridel and Alwyn before turning to the group at large.

“I can’t take you all the way to safety,” she said sadly. “I will be missed if I am absent too long. But I know some of you must know the druid hideaways. Go there if you want, they are kind people who will guide you true. Alternatively, my home village, Ealdor, lies east of here, on the other side of the border to Essetir. It is a small place and you will have to work to earn your keep, but it is safe. Ask for Hunith when you arrive and she will care for you.”

Forridel handed out a couple of sacks and said, “I will guide those who wish to go to Ealdor. I have been to Cenred’s kingdom before and know the quickest route.”

Alwyn offered to take the rest to the druids and the group split into their preferred groups. Forridel turned to Merlyn and said, “I would like to see the one who saved us.”

After a second’s hesitation, Merlyn pulled back her hood and bared her face to the people.

“You’re a woman,” the blonde said in surprise and the black-haired girl smiled sheepishly then blushed as the druid-friends bowed like she was some great queen.

“Don’t bow,” she muttered. “I am not royalty.”

“But you are,” said the adolescent boy, awe clear in his brown gaze. “You are our _álísend_.”

“Saviour,” Merlyn translated quietly, honoured by his faith. “You give me too much credit.”

“No,” denied Alwyn, placing his hand over his heart in respect. “We give you just enough.”

Well. What could she say to that?

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Merlyn waited until the last figure was out of sight before she disguised their tracks in the dirt, wanting to give them as much of a head start as possible. Once satisfied she had done all she could, she ducked back into the tunnel and melded the metal grate with its concrete home once more, leaving no evidence that anyone had passed through this way.

She left her red cloak in the burial vaults to collect when the castle wasn’t on such high alert then dashed up the stairs and through the corridors to Arthur's chambers. She whispered a spell to unlock the little room beside his bedchamber and slipped inside, realising too late that the room was too bright.

She winced from where she faced the door, shoulders rising to her ears before she quietly pushed it closed. She turned with a sheepish smile and her eyes landed on Arthur, who was leaning against the open door to his own chambers, arms crossed in annoyance. A candelabra sat burning brightly on her bedside table, illuminating his displeased expression.

“Sire!” she cried, holding out her hands in welcome. “What brings you here so late? Or early as it may be? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”

“I was,” he said slowly, evenly. “Up until the warning bell signalled a fire in the castle. Then I, and every able body, set out to extinguish it. Where were you, Merlyn?”

“Me?” she said, trying to think of a valid excuse. “Well. I was, er… I was…”

“You were what?” his eyebrow was raised pointedly, as if he knew he wouldn’t like what she said. She mentally cursed herself for not preparing for such an occurrence; she’d been waiting for when he discovered the prisoners missing and rightly assumed her interference. Somehow, being found out seemed easier than telling him herself what she’d done.

But when had anything she’d done ever been easy?

“I… was doing something you are not going to like,” she admitted, scrunching her nose in trepidation.

His frown deepened but he did not appear surprised. “You were practicing magic,” he stated, and, by his tone, she knew he’d already suspected.

She winced again. “Um, yes,” she said. “But that isn’t what will anger you.”

Arthur's nostrils flared. “Then what,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Did you do?”

“Um,” she squeaked. “I might have, er, freed the prisoners. From the dungeons. And led them out of Camelot.” She closed her eyes. “And gave them provisions to help them on their way.”

There was a long silence but Merlyn didn’t open her eyes. The fury crackling in the air was as potent as the spark of magic.

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“Oh, Merlyn,” Gwen sighed, cautiously stepping up beside the black-haired girl. Said girl was spattered in rotten fruit and vegetables, unable to defend herself while her hands and head were locked into the stocks. Thankfully, she was given a reprieve as the children had run off to find more ammo, which was why the curly-haired woman was approaching her at all.

“Hello, Gwen,” she replied with a grin, twisting her head awkwardly to meet the woman’s eyes. “We have to stop meeting like this.”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the mass breakout from the dungeons during the fire last night, would it?” Gwen asked lightly, seeming to already suspect her answer. Merlyn sighed.

“He caught me returning to my room,” she admitted glumly, pouting. “And I knew he would find out soon enough anyway. I was simply hoping for a good night’s sleep beforehand.”

“Did you think, perhaps, not doing it at all? I’m sure he’d have no cause to be mad then.”

Merlyn glared at her. “I wasn’t going to leave those people to die for a crime they didn’t commit. Their only blame lies in the fact that they do not cow to the King’s bias.”

Gwen glanced around, ever-cautious of such treasonous words then ducked closer to Merlyn with worry stressing her features. “You are pushing the prince beyond his tolerance, Merlyn. If you keep disregarding his rules, you will leave him no choice but to turn you over for execution.”

Merlyn looked away, anxiety rising at her mention. “He has already given me an ultimatum,” she murmured, not wanting to see Gwen's reaction. “He has ordered me to produce something that will trap my magic, or he will reveal my abilities to the King.”

The curly-haired woman gasped and squatted to force the black-haired girl to meet her eyes, uncaring of the lovely dress that was dirtying in the juices of rotten fruit. “Merlyn,” she whispered. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll have to concede,” she said softly. “There is a Magical Cuff that traps one’s magic. It is… it is horrible, but they are the only thing that might ease his temper.” She stared at Gwen imploringly. “You understand why I had to help those people, don’t you? They were all innocent; they had done no wrong. There were _children_ , Gwen.”

“I understand,” Gwen soothed, touching Merlyn's grotty hair kindly. “I admire your bravery and your dedication, as will all those people you saved. You are a hero, Merlyn. But I do not want to see you die.”

The black-haired girl sniffled, emotional at her friend’s acceptance – so different to the hours of scolding and belittling she’d just received. “I will not die, Gwen. I will just…” _not have magic. Possibly trap my spirit within a metal band_.

She swallowed hard, wondering what that would be like. Would she be emotionless? Stupefied? Comatose?

Goodness, she hoped it didn’t hurt.

A gaggle of chuckling children reappeared down the path, trotting up with a basket laden with withered produce. Merlyn would have to trust there were no potatoes.

“You’d better escape before you dirty your lovely dress any further,” she warned, and Gwen obediently backed away. “Give Morgana my love – and tell her that I have information for her whenever we can meet.”

Gwen looked curious but said nothing as she lifted a hand in acknowledgement. Merlyn was distracted by a thud against wood and the spray of mushy tomato, reminding her that she had more immediate concerns than the words of the druid-friends.

“Almost had me,” she shouted to the little girl with brown pigtails. She giggled and an older preteen, who might have been her sister, threw with better aim. Merlyn tucked her head and felt the wet spatter over her crown. She suppressed a disgusted shudder and gave an encouraging laugh. She still had four more days to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TBC…  
> So sorry for the long delay. No real excuses other than the difficulty of proof reading so far back when I’m neck deep in the finale – sorry guys!   
> Thanks so much to those who reviewed, followed and favourited. The appreciation is wonderful!  
> B


	6. Prince and Pauper

Gaius was horrified when Merlyn told him that she had been the one to release the prisoners. He clipped her on the back of the head and set to ranting and raving as he paced, leaving Merlyn to tap her foot in anxiousness while she waited him out. If she delayed too long, Arthur would come searching, suspicious on what had caused the holdup – as if informing her guardian of Arthur's demand would not take a little time.

“You’re lucky he didn’t inform the king immediately! What would you have done then, Merlyn? You cannot protect Arthur if you are dead!”

It had already been ten minutes and Merlyn still had to tell Gaius that the prince knew of and wanted him to create a Magical Cuff.

“What a stupid thing to do, girl! I thought I taught you better than this! I knew you were reckless but actively breaking the laws when Arthur is already suspicious of you is asking for the pyre!”

Merlyn blew a strand of hair out of her face, not having bothered to tie it up since she still had another two days of the stocks before it was all over. The only reason she was free now was because it was late at night and Arthur wanted Gaius to begin his task immediately.

“What do you have to say for yourself? What idiocy could have driven you this time, hmm?”

She blinked when he paused, looking up to meet his raised eyebrow and expectant glare. She said, “Arthur also knows about the Magical Cuff and has ordered you to create it.”

Gaius stared, gobsmacked for a minute before he started sputtering, “How in the name of the Fate’s – when did he – how did he find out? Did you tell him? Of all the things, girl! Of all the things to let slip!”

“I didn’t let it slip!” she defended, feeling attacked. “He had read about cuffing magic in one of the magical books he browsed and when I said the same word, he realised it had more significance than a trinket. You know I’m rubbish at lying on the spot! He caught me out and knew I knew something. He would have forced it from me one way or the other.”

“This is just…” he turned away, appearing unable to find the appropriate expression. He raised a hand to his forehead and Merlyn regretted the stress she was creating. If she could leave him out of it, she would, but Arthur would not condone it and the physician was the most knowledgeable man in Camelot regarding sorcery.

“I cannot do this,” he mumbled, lumbering over to the table and lowering himself onto the seat. “I will not make something that will be used against you. I refuse. He can hang me if he must, but I refuse.”

“Gaius…” she whispered, aghast. “You must! I cannot let you die for me.”

“Then flee, Merlyn,” he stated like it was simple. “Find the druids. Go back to Ealdor. Be anywhere that isn’t here, where you will not suffer such a burden.”

She shook her head, shocked he would say such a thing. “I cannot,” she refused firmly. “My place is here, by Arthur's side. And you know he will hunt me down if I leave. I cannot run from this, Gaius, and I need your help.”

“Merlyn –”

“No!” she snapped, his arguments only making her feel worse. Any alternative he mentioned, she had already contemplated. If she wanted magic accepted, and Arthur alive when it happened, then she had to remain. “He wants nothing to do with magic right now. I cannot run away, and he will expose me to the King if I do not comply. Please…” she begged. “I don’t have a choice… don’t make this harder…”

Gaius heaved a long, sad sigh, dropping his head in defeat. “I do not have all the knowledge,” he murmured. “I, alone, cannot complete this task.” He raised his head and met her eyes sternly. “The Great Dragon is tethered by enchanted chains, very similar to what you will need. He will have the knowledge you seek.”

“The dragon,” Merlyn repeated, surprised at first, then apprehensive. “He will not give up this knowledge without a fight. We did not part ways on the best of terms.”

Gaius’ eyebrow raised and he said solemnly, “Then let us hope that he truly believes in Albion’s future, and he sees fit to forgive you.”

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She didn’t have a chance to visit The Great Dragon before a missive arrived for the King. The House of Tregor had been attacked and overrun by invaders, and the noble family was missing, presumed dead. Lord Godwyn of Gawant, long-time friend of King Uther and neighbours to the ravaged island city, managed to save but a few dozen citizens. The rest had been killed, enslaved, or imprisoned with no way to rescue them without sacrificing hundreds in a siege.

Arthur shared with her that his father had been allies with the Lord of Tregor since his inception into Camelot and Merlyn thought it must be difficult to know there would be no retribution for the carnage.

Nevertheless, the King extended his welcome to any survivors who wished to settle in Camelot and Arthur was sent out with a small platoon to visit them personally, a cart of supplies at their back. Merlyn had never been to the Kingdom of Gawant, lying south-west of Camelot, but she found the land almost alien to what she was used to. It was windier and wet, large mists spread wide over broad plains that encompassed most of the land. Despite the relatively flat terrain, tall outcroppings jutted from the earth in rocky clusters, grass torn away as if the stones were giant fingers reaching for the sky. Yet, the soil was fertile; the cattle fat, the crops lush and the people rugged but welcoming. The House of Tregor sat just off the south-west coastline as part of the Severn Sea, prime trading position with the Western Isles and greatly protected by the design of its city and its powerful neighbours. But clearly not protected enough.

Arthur was still furious at her stunt with the prisoners and treated her with disdain the entire trip – but, honestly, it felt no different to his usual attitude so she simply avoided him. Instead, she rode beside Sir Leon and they spoke of recent happenings, not having chatted for far too long. Sir Lucan soon approached on her other side and quickly, all three were trading embarrassing stories while Sunstrider made sure their steeds kept their distance.

The city of Gawant was situated on the southern edge of the kingdom, built upon the side of a single forested mountain just before the valley to the sea. It was a beautiful city, with cream sandstone walls and soft-blue tiled rooves, beholding many broad turrets and spires. It wasn’t as intricate as Camelot’s artful details but it was clean and lively, rich with the scent of the sea and protected by much of the harsh wind by the mountain.

“Could you pass me the salt?” Princess Elena requested, drawing Merlyn back to the present and she moved from the window gifting her a partial view of the mind-boggling expanse of water to where the pretty – if awkward – blonde was sitting at the long centre table. Arthur and Lord Godwyn had yet to return from their visit with the refugees who wished to relocate to Camelot, but Merlyn had been left to tend to Princess Elena while her own maid, Grunhilda, was on a short trip to visit her family. Lord Godwyn was a good man, kind considering his status, and his daughter was not snotty or conceited at all. In fact, she was rather clumsy and dishevelled for a princess, which drew Merlyn to her, as one kindred spirit to another.

“Thank you,” she said as Merlyn handed her the shaker, only for her to drop it and almost spill the contents all over her meal. Merlyn managed to catch it beforehand and the rumpled royal slapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh – bugger!”

Merlyn snorted in surprise at her expletive then clapped a hand over her mouth at the disrespect. Princess Elena turned to look at her then grinned at the contrite expression at the black-haired girl’s face. “Apologies,” Merlyn said. “I’m notoriously clumsy as well. I’m simply surprised at hearing such language from a royal.”

“The stableboys taught me,” the princess admitted slyly. “Father hates it but…” she shrugged and picked up her goblet, gulping down the contents quickly.

“I hear you ride well,” Merlyn said as the blonde put her empty cup back down, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. The princess shot her a surprised look and she elaborated, “One of the stableboys mentioned it as I settled my steed – Gunter, I think was his name.”

Immediately, the highborn smiled, and it transformed her features from slightly ungainly and furrowed to smooth and fair. “Horse riding is one of the things I _can_ do,” she said happily. “My mother was a skilled horsewoman, apparently. My father says that I take after her a lot.”

“You didn’t know her,” Merlyn surmised gently.

Princess Elena looked saddened. “No,” she sighed. “She died when I was a babe. But I know she was a wonderful woman, beloved by her subjects.”

“Then you do take after her, for I have only heard good things of you also.”

The young royal chuffed out a laugh then accidentally snorted when she inhaled. She paused, eyes widening in mortification, but Merlyn laughed, prompting the blonde to giggle in return.

By the time Arthur and Lord Godwyn returned, both young women were chatting like old friends, Elena guffawing from one of Merlyn's childhood stories while Merlyn was in stitches from her involuntary snorts. The men both paused in the doorway, Arthur incredulous and Lord Godwyn surprised. It had been much too long since his daughter had laughed without a care. Her rough-edged personality offended many of the nobles residing in their small kingdom, so the young woman had lacked the fruitful bond a friendship could bring. It was nice to see her happy once again.

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They left two days later with a small cluster of survivors seeking Camelot’s shelter. As Camelot lacked much in the way of seafaring resources, most of the refugees decided to remain on the coastal kingdom as their livelihoods had been based over the water. The families that ventured into the land-based realm were merchants in weaving and jewellery with one lone, grieving fisherman.

She gave the battered man some calming tea during their first night on the road, his quiet tears wrenching at her heart.

“I plan ter join the guard,” he told her, his accent deep and husky, his weathered hands wrapped around the hot mug. “Me father was a fisherman an’ his father before ‘im, but I canna… I canna do it without me Aedre.”

He ducked his head, emotion overwhelming him, so she wrapped him in a blanket and sat beside him in silence. So much death. So much destruction. And for what? Dominion? Pride? Greed?

Not good enough.

All she could hope for was that one day, Albion would deter such cruelty, for what bully would dare stand against a United Kingdom? Those who sowed pain and terror were cowards, and cowards only liked to fight when they had the better odds. Albion would be a land of power and respect, and no bully would dare stand against that.

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Once they returned to Camelot, the refugees were given council on how to settle into their new home and Arthur was relieved of his duty. He wasted no time sending Merlyn off to create the Cuff, warning her with dark eyes of his expectations.

“Do not test my resolve, Merlyn,” he cautioned. “The King has reason to ban magic and I will not defy him for you any longer.”

So she crept down into the bowels of Camelot and called for the dragon, nervous and apprehensive to how he would answer her. Their previous confrontation rang in her ears, the accusations she blasted at him: _What about your selfishness? Would you care for me at all if I did not further your ends? Would you care about what happened to Arthur if he was not the one to build Albion?_

She winced, remembering the anger and… hurt?… in his eyes.

There was the familiar flap of large, leathery wings and the dragon descended from high in the cave. He took his time to land, settling himself on his perch and folding his wings with care. He glared down at her imperiously.

“Dragon,” she said then sighed in annoyance at herself. “Actually, I would like to know your name, if you are willing to give it. I’ve been rude for too long.”

He said nothing at first and Merlyn had a belated idea, “It’s not impolite to ask, is it? I mean, is your name a secret?”

“My name is Kilgarrah,” he intoned, cutting her off. “I never told you because you never asked, young witch.”

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I’m sorry for that, Kilgarrah. And I’m sorry for how last we parted. We were both stubborn and angry, and I let it get the best of me.”

“Did you reveal your powers to the seer?” he asked, and she swallowed heavily.

“I did,” she admitted, and his nostrils flared in annoyance. “But that was my decision to make and it is now done.” She swallowed, uneasy, and said, “I have a request.”

“But of course you do,” he said. “For why else would you be here?”

She tucked her chin at the barb but continued, “You know that Arthur knows of my magic, and that he does not accept.”

“I do,” the dragon intoned, his interest piqued.

“Well… he… he had Gaius and I researching ways to force me to stop, since it was clear I could not do so on my own.”

“You are a creature of magic,” he stated. “You can no more stop it than you could stop your heart.”

“Well,” she said, huffing a mirthless laugh. “He found a way.”

The dragon blinked, clearly trying to puzzle her words. He lowered his head and moved closer. “What do you mean, young witch?”

“He, er, Arthur learned of a magical device called a Cuff that nullifies one’s magic. He has ordered it to be created on pain of death.”

The dragon reared back. “Those abominations were wiped from existence,” he snarled. “They were used to enslave and torture magical beings. How did he come by such knowledge?”

“A book,” she said. “And me. He…” she felt sick, particularly with Kilgarrah’s saying they were used for enslavement. “He has ordered Gaius and I to create one. And he said… he said that if I refuse, he will turn me over to the King for execution.”

“Arthur is the Once and Future King, and you are Emrys. I do not think he is capable of fulfilling such a threat.”

“You didn’t see him,” she said, staring at him with wide eyes. “He believes that this is the only way that I will be saved from sorcery’s corruption. He told me… he said he preferred me to die now than to have me live as a twisted version of myself.”

The dragon looked away, golden eyes flicking over the rocks as he assimilated the new information. Merlyn glanced down, taking deep breaths to try to temper the restlessness itching under her skin. Her heart was thumping in her throat, as quick as a rabbit’s, but her gut burned with angry bees. She distracted herself by watching the glimmer of shadows playing off the divots in the platform, cast off from the dragon like he was a faint, golden moon.

“The Cuff is not an artefact for the faint of heart,” Kilgarrah began in a strong voice, meeting her eyes once more. “It takes strong magic for it to be created – and stronger still for it to be broken. Once worn, the bearer cannot remove it – only one of equal or greater power can do so.” Merlyn gulped, anxiety sitting in her throat. He softened his tone as he added, “You are unique, Merlyn. You are _of_ magic. I do not know how it will react to your powers.” He paused heavily. “You may die.”

She took a shaky breath, feeling ill. Not only might her spirit be trapped, but she could not remove it once it was on. And it might kill her.

“If you should die, Merlyn,” said the dragon sombrely. “Albion will never be born.”

She took another breath. Then another. She clenched her hands into fists and firmed her resolve.

“I cannot believe that to be so,” she said, meeting Kilgarrah's beautiful, glowing eyes. “You say my destiny is written, that fate is almost impossible to avoid. If that is so, then I must trust that the future is resilient, and it will not be ruined by these actions. Arthur is changing. I must believe that he will, one day, realise magic is not evil. Until then, I must comply with his wishes so that I may remain at his side, as his protector. If… if it doesn’t kill me.”

“Very well,” he said. “But I ask for something in return. Before you carry this abomination, I wish to be released from my chains. You promised me my freedom in the past, Merlyn, and I will hold you to your word.”

“I will,” she agreed, mind whirling with the threat the Cuff bore.

The Great Dragon accepted her words and raised his head above her, sucking in a deep breath. Merlyn closed her eyes and opened her mind as hot air swirled over her frame, caressing like silk instead of roasting her flesh. Knowledge burst behind her eyelids, blooming like the first roses through snow, splashing the fields of white with vivid colour.

She gasped as she opened her eyes and familiar flash of heat warmed her irises.

“Wow…” she whispered.

The dragon said solemnly, “The creation of such things comes at a steep price, Merlyn. Be prepared to pay it.”

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Morgana was not happy that Arthur had reverted to keeping Merlyn by his side. The black-haired girl knew the highborn was eager to discuss things and annoyed that her chances were being ruined by a prince’s inability to let her out of sight.

Arthur, too, was annoyed, though his irritation was because of the length of time it would take to create the Cuff. The iron band had to be burnished in a magical flame during the darkest part of a moonless night while chanting a long and complex spell. Afterwards, the Bind Runes had to be inscribed on the inside of the metal in lots of threes each night until it was complete. As the next new moon was a week away, he was understandably irritated. And Morgana wasn’t helping, taking every chance she had to bicker with him.

It was after one such argument that Arthur had stormed out to train with the knights, desperate to let off some steam. Merlyn had quietly followed, bringing his burnished sword to clean while Arthur used his training blade. She settled herself on a bench at the edge of the grassed area with a rag and oil when a raven flew down from the balustrade to land atop a rack of shields nearby. The movement caught Merlyn's attention and she tilted her head to observe the bold bird, wondering what had drawn its attention this low. Its black eyes locked on her and, even as she watched, it glided from the shields to land on the other end of the bench she sat on.

“Um,” she said eloquently, unsure what it wanted. “I have no meat to give you.”

It didn’t startle at her quiet words but, instead, hopped closer, well within arm’s reach now.

Merlyn glanced at the busy knights then back at the black bird. It cocked its head at her then turned its body around so that one of its legs was visible. Tied to the scaled limb was a tiny letter scroll.

“Huh,” she said in surprise. “Is that for me?”

It cawed quietly and held out its leg, so she cautiously extended her fingers and untied it. Once the letter was in her palm, the raven flew off, but she did not unravel it to read immediately. She didn’t think anything written on a missive delivered by a bird would be something Camelot citizens needed to see. Best to examine it away from prying eyes.

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Later that night, in the isolation of her servant chambers, Merlyn read the letter by the yellow light of a magical flame. It was short, as the scrap of parchment was small, but it was from Alwyn, the brown-haired man from the dungeons, thanking her for her actions in rescuing him and the other prisoners. He extended the hand of friendship from his druid clan: _If you wish for more knowledge or peaceful company, seek out a raven and tell him your pleas. We will answer_.

Seeing the welcome from her kin, from people who only wished to live in peace, caused a warm ball of happiness to bloom in her chest. The druids might have revered her once for her prophesised role in creating Albion, but now they valued her for her own merits, for her own deeds. It reassured that small part of her brain that was still a lonely, insecure child faced with mistrust and suspicion for things she couldn’t control.

“Merlyn!” Arthur called, and the magical flame blinked out of existence before she could register the summons. In the absolute blackness left behind, Merlyn slid off her bed only to have her foot catch in the bedsheet and throw off her balance. She landed with a loud thump onto her hands and knees.

“Ow,” she hissed, shaking her foot free, clambering upright once more, only to knock face-first into the door as she misjudged the distance. “Bother!”

When she finally fell into the brighter room, rubbing her nose, the prince had an eyebrow raised in exasperation. “How you manage to live day by day is a mystery to me, Merlyn,” he said, clearly having heard the commotion.

“I’m not always this clumsy,” she said defensively. “It seems to come in waves.”

“Well, let us hope it doesn’t last beyond tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow, you have been requested to join Morgana on her pilgrimage to her father’s tomb.” His expression spoke of his displeasure as much as his voice and Merlyn figured it was because she would be away from his side for the day.

She raised an eyebrow at him, surprised. “And you agreed?”

“I couldn’t very well say no, could I?” he exclaimed. “This is Morgana we’re talking about. When I hesitated, she lashed me with her words and accused me of being overbearing. _Me_! Overbearing!”

Merlyn felt that answering that would only get her in more trouble so she kept her mouth shut in a rare display of tact. Thankfully, Arthur was too caught up in his rant to see her biting back her words.

“And then she said that I’m acting like a child unwilling to share his toy! I mean – can you believe her? I was always great at sharing my things. As long as it wasn’t my swords, or my horses, or my battle figures. Or my clothes.”

She raised a brow. “So pretty much everything, then,” she said drolly, and Arthur shot her a glare.

“The point is, I agreed to let you go, if only to shut her up. But,” he added, suddenly serious. “Do not make me regret it. I’ll not have you using this opportunity to practice sorcery. If I hear a whisper of anything odd happening tomorrow… if you disobey me, I’ll turn you over to my father, understood?”

“Perfectly,” she muttered.

“I mean it, Merlyn,” he said, obviously not trusting she was taking him seriously. “Releasing those prisoners was the last straw. If my father ever found out, you would be flogged and strung up for the crows. Do not test me again.”

She bowed her head, clenching her jaw. “Of course, sire,” she said, keeping her tone monotonous.

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Riding out of the city was like shedding a full body of armour and Merlyn sighed in relief as the weight of Arthur's presence evaporated into the ether. Beneath her, Sunstrider sucked in a contented belly-full of air, not even minding Morgana's steed, Grane, as she stepped close enough for Merlyn's and Morgana's boots to scrape. Around them, arrayed in a loose circle, was a handful of Uther’s personal guards, but they were discreet and the black-haired girl hardly felt their presence at all. Beside her, Morgana eyed her with interest but made no move to begin the conversation Merlyn knew was itching her tongue. It was nice to know she could be patient when she needed to be.

“I know I’ve said it already,” Merlyn said, breaking the quiet. “But I am very grateful that you talked Arthur into letting me out today, particularly on such a personal journey.”

“And I told you, I could see the very life being strangled from you under his thumb.” She cocked her head at Merlyn curiously. “What did you do to incite such scrutiny? He is wary to let you out of arm’s reach.”

Merlyn looked down. She didn’t like lying but she was still trying to juggle the who-knows-what-knows-who conundrum. She didn’t want to tell Arthur that Morgana had magic since he was still so negative towards it and she didn’t want to tell Morgana that Arthur knew Merlyn had magic lest the highborn connect the prince’s treatment to it. In Merlyn's mind, it seemed prime material to lead the highborn into that creeping darkness that taunted at the edge of awareness.

“He didn’t like that a whole slew of prisoners escaped from under his nose,” she said, which was not untrue, it simply wasn’t relevant to his actions with her. “He wants to be sure no servants were to be used as scapegoats.”

“That’s… protective of him,” the noblewoman said, green eyes drifting off into the underbrush as she mused.

“So it seems,” murmured Merlyn, not feeling particularly protected.

Thankfully, they moved onto lighter topics as Morgana described the work she and Gwen were doing regarding the orphanages and the homeless. “Gwen had a lovely idea regarding rehabilitation of those who struck misfortune. If I can submit for funding off the King, we may be able to provide care and clothing for more than we are now, free of charge. If they are able to receive thus then they will be better suited to look for work and employers would be more willing to hire them. Is that not a fantastic idea?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Merlyn said, caught by the ingenuity of such an idea. It was plausible at its roots and would be a great help to those who _could_ work but were not given the chance.

They also discussed Gwen's growing concerns on her attempts to fall pregnant, though Morgana knew more on the subject than Merlyn as the two were able to see each other more often.

“She is afraid that she is barren,” said the noblewoman, their steed’s shifting closer so that they could talk without the guard’s listening in. “She hasn’t even had a late bleed, so there has been no miscarriage. I think she is too ashamed to seek Gaius’ aid but you are a woman and her friend, I believe she would greatly appreciate your input.”

“Of course,” said Merlyn. “I’ve already mentioned to her that it is not unusual for a woman to take over a year to conceive. They have only been wed… nearly five months now.”

“I think…” Morgana glanced at the nearest guard, but he was still too far to overhear. “I think she _senses_ something is wrong. Is that possible?”

Merlyn shrugged. “I’m unsure. Gaius says that a woman’s intuition is a powerful thing. Many have come to him knowing they were pregnant even before they missed their moon cycle. It wouldn’t be impossible to assume the opposite could be true.”

Though it was a terrible thing to imagine happening to any woman who wanted a family – and Gwen had made it clear that she wanted one, one day. She loved children, and she’d now met the man of her dreams; if now, it turned out that she couldn’t bear, it would be devastating. Merlyn had seen, during her placement with Gaius, the devastation that could take hold if a woman lost a babe or couldn’t carry – like they had failed as wives, as mothers. It was horrible to see, since women offered so much more than a body to bear, but it was clear the grief could be debilitating. Never, ever would she wish that upon a person.

But it had her thinking. Could magic solve such issues as barrenness?

Her magic book didn’t delve into anything like body modification or enhancement, but it was more of an overview than a gospel, and Merlyn knew much information was missing from its pages. Thankfully, she now had access to more sources of information than she’d had before.

She hummed to herself. She wondered if the druids would be up for a visit soon.

And if Arthur would permit her to slip away for it.

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They were riding through a shallow valley between the forest when they were attacked by bandits. It was a large group, with steeds of their own, and the royal guard were caught unawares. Sir Robert swung his horse about and shouted, “My ladies, you must follow me!”

He barely had time to finish his sentence before he jerked and fell over his skittish horse’s neck, an arrow protruding from his back. Bandits swarmed close and Sunstrider reared, forelegs striking out at one who ran too close. He fell under Sunstrider's body and was crushed beneath his hooves.

“Run!” Merlyn shouted, spinning him around, but Morgana was already being pulled from Grane by several masked men. The grey mare bolted the instant she was able, heading back towards Camelot but Merlyn was distracted by another bandit jumping at her with a sword. She yelped, unprepared, but Sunstrider’s hind leg snapped out to catch him in the ribs, the snap of bones clear through the shouts and clashes of swords. The man fell in a groaning heap and didn’t rise.

She looked back to Morgana to see one of their guards had cantered up and managed to dispatch the men holding the highborn, but he was now besieged by bandits on his other side, sword working to keep them at bay. Morgana ran away from the melee and Merlyn shouted to her, “Morgana! Take my hand!” holding the proffered limb out as she spurred her stallion forward. Morgana spun and saw her fast approach, reaching out a hand to clasp Merlyn's. With a little bit of magic, the noblewoman was swung up behind her, her arms twining instantly around Merlyn's waist. Sunstrider gave a rebellious squeal, probably thinking it was an unwanted addition so Merlyn planted a hand on his neck to tell him otherwise before he could buck them both off.

He renewed his charge through the chaos, knocking over a fleeing bandit too stupid to move out of the way. He was crushed underfoot but another managed to strike out with a sword and her steed shied with a scream of pain. Along the crest of his neck, red poured free, a deep gash from ear to whither.

“No!” Merlyn cried but was jolted off balance as Sunstrider skidded to a sudden halt, three masked men waiting on the rise of the hill he had been approaching. Their swords gleamed and their smiles were wicked.

“Get off the horsey, girlies,” a brown-toothed, dirty-haired one ordered. “Boss wants to see the noble.”

“Over my dead body!” Merlyn snapped, wishing she had a blade, _anything_ , to fight with. There were several royal guards still fighting and they were loyal to the King alone; she would not be spared should they see her use magic.

“That can be arranged,” he leered and stepped forward while resting the flat of his blade in his other hand. Cocky.

Merlyn pressed a hand against Sunstrider’s neck and felt his fatigue. He would not be able to carry two riders the whole way to Camelot. He may not even be able to carry one.

_Hold on, boy_ , she told him and sent a little bit of energy into him. _Carry Morgana home_.

She blinked to cover the gold flash across her eyes but when she felt Sunstrider bunch his muscles in preparation to flee, Merlyn leapt from his back. The brown-toothed man didn’t have time to raise his weapon without cutting himself so Merlyn was able to land on him with her full weight, his body crumpling beneath her. She heard his leg snap and his accompanying scream was loud in her ears. Thankfully, she still heard the strident gait of a retreating canter and Morgana's frightened screaming of her name. She didn’t look back, too busy snatching up the fallen man’s sword and bringing it to bear against his two angered cohorts. The large weapon was awkward in her grip and she wished she was better with a long blade; her wrists unable to handle the weight for long.

It didn’t mean she couldn’t brawl with the best of them.

They saw her clumsiness and sneered, one stepping forward with confidence. She caught his testing jab with the flat of her sword and surprised him by shoving it roughly to the side, the metal scraping loudly, before she released the weapon altogether and lunged at his exposed midsection. It was clear he hadn’t expected such tactics and fell under her tackle with a yelp. She straddled his torso to lay into him with her fists but a sharp cry from behind had her ducking and rolling away instead. Where she had been, was another bandit, but his sword was suspended unmoving in his grip as he stared down at his own chest where the point of a blade protruded. It was removed with a wet slide and he fell to the side, revealing one of the royal guards; Geoffrey, if she wasn’t mistaken.

“Flee, Merlyn,” he said, slaying the man she had tackled before hauling her upright. “I’ll guard your back.”

“No,” she said, grabbing his arm as a handful of masked men started running down the slope from the trees to engage them. “Morgana is safe. We must all run! Go to Camelot and sound the warning, you will better at identifying them than she.”

Another guard staggered to join them, his head bleeding profusely, though he was aware enough to take defensive position beside his comrade and swing at an overenthusiastic bandit. Geoffrey, gave her a push and turned to meet a second foe, clearly expecting her to run. Across the valley, a riderless horse galloped past and, with their backs to her, Merlyn felt safe enough to call it towards her. It was panicked but sensed her beckons as an instinct, changing direction obediently. It rushed close enough for her to grab a rein and spin it to a stop, dragged only a little before it obliged.

“Get on!” she shouted as the bandits met them once more. They ignored her. “Geoffrey, Morgana needs you to see her to safety! Get on!”

He growled at her logic but downed the last bandit in their vicinity, spinning and mounting in one smooth motion. He held out an arm but Merlyn grabbed the injured soldier and pushed him into his reach. “I’m good at escaping and they’ll not kill me immediately; I’m defenceless.”

“I cannot leave a woman –”

“You are doing just that by having Morgana suffer alone on an injured horse!” she stepped back lest he grab her and turned to meet the approaching thugs. “Find her, get to Camelot, find me!”

Geoffrey cursed and she heard him grunt as he heaved his fellow up behind him. “Bloody women!” he snapped. “ _Heeyah_!”

The horse leapt away with a squeal and Geoffrey shouted back, “Arthur is going to kill me!”

Merlyn would have laughed but she was too busy trying to appear as unthreatening as possible. The swarming bandits quickly surrounded her as she held up her hands, flinching as one or two poked her with their swords, eager for blood. Her heart pounded with adrenalin and she trembled with nerves. Gods, she hoped they didn’t plan to kill her.

After a moment, they parted to allow their leader through. He was recognisable through the typical arrogant swagger and maskless face.

“Well, well,” he said, his accent the lilting drawl of the Western Isles. He looked her up and down like a man inspecting stock. “You don’t appear to be the King’s ward, now do you?”

“I am just a servant,” she snapped, lowering her hands since he seemed more inclined to banter than to harm. “You failed.”

Suddenly he grabbed her neckerchief and dragged her close. His stinky breath washed over her face and made her stomach roll. “Hmm,” he said softly. “But I don’t believe that is true.” She felt his fingers touch between her breasts and shuddered in disgust only to realise he wasn’t groping her when he lifted the medallion. He gave her a smirk, knowing exactly how he had frightened her before he peered down at the solid metal piece.

“Now this,” he said. “Is not the trinket of a mere servant. Friend of Camelot, are we?” he asked rhetorically. “Not as treasured as a King’s ward, mind, but there’ll be a pretty payment for you, I’m sure. Not many of these are handed out these days.”

Merlyn glared at him but didn’t respond. The man smiled at her silence and said to his men, “Let’s go, boys. Our schedules a little tighter than we planned now that Camelot with be alerted but I’m sure we’re up for the challenge.”

There was a roar of approval and they dispersed to collect weapons and do whatever else criminals did after an attack. The leader stayed with her, watching her watch his men.

“What shall I call you, My Lady?” he asked.

“You can call me nothing and release me now,” she retorted. “There will be people coming for me.”

He leant forward. “That’s what I’m counting on, love,” he whispered like he was revealing a secret. “And my name’s Kendrick, since you asked so nicely.”

She glared. “Don’t care,” she hissed back. “People like you don’t need names; you are all the same. I will call you Lowlife One.”

His smirk hardened into annoyance but he said nothing else, turning away and gesturing to one of his men, one who wore an executioner’s hood as his mask. He approached with a piece of coarse rope and a leer.

As her hands were bound in front, Merlyn thought about using her magic. There were no Camelot guards to monitor her actions, though there were too many scattered bandits to take them down without some seeing her powers. And that meant they would be able to identify her before the King when they faced trial. Admittedly, the word of thieves and thugs meant little to a king, but it _would_ be a little suspicious that one defenceless girl managed to take down an entire squad of brigands without injury. And the last thing she wanted was more suspicion.

She growled quietly to herself, annoyed at the oppressive laws.

Kendrick smirked, probably thinking her frustration was with him. “Don’t worry, kitten,” he purred. “I’ll take good care of you.”

She glowered at him, keeping her chin up despite the anxiety eating her belly. “I do not need your aid, or your company, or your care. You are filth, feeding off others like a parasite.” She turned her head away, dismissively. “You are nothing but a tick waiting to be plucked.”

He grabbed her jaw tightly and wrenched her head back towards him. Clearly, he didn’t like insults. “I may be a tick,” he growled. “But you should hope that I get my blood. For if I don’t, I’ll be taking it from your pretty flesh.” His calloused thumb scraped over her cheek before he shoved her away. She staggered into the man who’d tied her hands and Kendrick snapped, “Gag her. Her face may be pretty, but her words are not.”

If she was to be gagged with anything, she was glad they picked her own neckerchief. Gods knew what kind of grime would be on their rags if state of their clothes was any indication. She scowled in annoyance but didn’t fight as the blue fabric was tied around her head, pulling in between her teeth and over her tongue like a bit.

When it was secured, the man added a length of rope to the knot between her wrists then led her, like an unruly dog, towards the trail between the trees.

Kendrick called to the men as they gathered together, preparing to depart, “We’ll have to travel through most of the night to avoid patrols. Can’t have our prize stolen before she meets Hengist, can we?”

There was a noise of agreement and a little bit of grumbling but they moved off in a cohesive group without fuss. Merlyn’s captor walked ahead with Kendrick, but she had no opportunity to strike at his unsuspecting back as she was bracketed by three men either side, probably there for that exact reason. One or two sneered at her when she eyed them but they left her alone, mercifully, probably under orders not to ‘spoil’ her.

_Find me_ , she whispered mentally to Arthur, even knowing he wouldn’t hear.

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The first thing through Arthur's head when he saw Sunstrider burst onto the courtyard, hooves clattering against the cobblestones, neck and chest painted thick with blood was, _No! Merlyn!_

He rushed over as the trembling stallion skidded to a halt, staggering in his panic, mouth foaming and clearly in pain, but the woman upon his back pushed herself up from her hunched position and he saw it wasn’t Merlyn, but Morgana. Her eyes locked on his as he neared and tears spilled down her flushed cheeks.

“Arthur!” she sobbed and reached out her arms like a child when he was close enough to help her dismount. Several guards and knights rushed closer as the noblewoman was recognised and it was a mark of Sunstrider’s exhaustion that he did not react to the onslaught of strangers.

Morgana fell into his arms and cried into his neck, his own arms wrapping around her securely. He tried not to panic at her distress; it didn’t mean Merlyn was dead, it just meant something bad had happened.

“Arthur!” she whimpered. “T-they-they came out of the t-trees – I was pulled from my steed, but Merlyn – sh-she – she rescued me – jumped off to save me! Oh, gods, we have to go back for her!”

“We will,” he murmured, looking past her dishevelled hair to the horse. He was being led away gently, head hanging low with exhaustion and his muscles trembling with shock. Blood continued to leak from the extensive gash along his neck.

The prince called to the guards leading the injured beast away; “Call for the stablemaster to treat him – and spare no expense. I will have the Court Physician sent down to confer on treatments.”

“Immediately, sire,” said one and dashed off ahead.

Arthur sighed, turning to guide Morgana into the castle. Merlyn would be grief-stricken if Sunstrider died, and despite his issues with her lately, he wouldn’t wish such anguish on her ever.

But first, he had to find her.

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The bandits finally stopped when the waning moon sank behind the mountains in the early hours of predawn, leaving the dark too deep to see. The men settled down quickly, foregoing a fire in favour of rest and passed around bits of jerky and drink. Merlyn was tied to the high branch of a sturdy tree at the edge of the camp and left to her own devices – and exactly the opportunity she was looking for.

She waited for Kendrick to move his eyes away before she closed her own and used magic to fray at the rope around her wrists. It took several minutes, as she didn’t want to sound of shredding fibres to be heard over the quiet rumbles of voices, but soon, the bonds were loose enough for her to shimmy her hands free, wincing as the course strands rubbed at her chaffed skin. She glanced around furtively again but found several men on watch, including Kendrick. She decided to wait a little longer to vanish and wished her ability to slow time was not broken, as it would have been perfect to give her a head start. But her control was still untrustworthy, even so long after helping Gwen’s father Tom when he was ‘executed’.

So instead, she waited, and she watched.

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Morgana was handed over to her handmaiden, Farah, to be tended while a troop was sent out to search for survivors. Arthur and his men were mounting up in the courtyard when two of the royal guard returned atop a single steed, one man was semiconscious but the other, Geoffrey, was alert and explained the circumstances. Arthur tried to contain his irritation that the man had left Merlyn behind, but Geoffrey must have seen something in his expression.

“I’m sorry, sire,” he said contritely, broad features pinched in remorse. “I understand if you want me punished but Merlyn would not budge, and Lady Morgana's fate was still uncertain.”

“You are fine, Geoffrey,” Arthur said on a sigh, threading his fingers around Hengroen’s reins. “You did your duty in a difficult situation. I can ask no more than that.”

The man dipped his weary head and handed his steed off to a waiting stableboy. As the pair headed towards Gaius’ chambers, Arthur and his knights set out in the afternoon light with haste.

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The men had relaxed into their watch, eyes glazed with tiredness, so Merlyn decided it was now or never.

She had been adjusting her location slowly, inching further behind the tree under the guise of finding a comfortable position. She had kept her hands in her lap with the tattered rope covering her wrists but now, with no eyes on her person, she removed the bonds and pushed herself behind the trunk entirely. Her riding clothes were soft colours, brown breeches and a faded red tunic with her brown girdle belted at her waist, so she knew she could blend with the shadows of the shrubbery during the moonless hours before dawn.

She used magic to adjust her vision to the night and crept away slowly, trying to avoid crackly leave and twigs. Her heart thrummed in her throat loudly enough that she feared the organ would give away her location instead of her clumsiness. She wasn’t the best at stealth, but with no need to hide her magic, she was able to use it to guide her true. A fox darted away at her passage and a couple of bats started a tussle overhead, their squawks and chatter giving her the perfect cover to quicken her pace, jogging between old trees back the way she came.

Then, back at the camp, Merlyn heard a shout and gave up all pretence of stealth in favour of speed. She sprinted through the underbrush, weaving around trees as the sound of thundering feet crashed along behind her. Her breath quickened as panic took hold and she wondered if this was what prey felt like when it was pursued. It was a horrible sensation, the fear that she wasn’t moving fast enough, that she had no time to think, that they were right at her back, reaching out a hand –

She screamed as fingers tangled in her shirt and shoved her to the side, unbalancing her so that she tumbled roughly over sticks and stones. She scrambled to her feet immediately but the man, Kendrick she saw, was upon her with a snarl, torch dropped at his feet uncaringly.

“Let me go!” she shouted defiantly, even as she lurched backwards to avoid his punches, shadows flickering oddly in the low firelight.

“You think you can run from me?” he snapped, and she was suddenly hit from behind by someone else, stars bursting in her eyes as she fell to her knees.

Kendrick grabbed a fistful of her hair and pulled it back so her face was bared to the sky. He loomed above her angrily, his image spinning dizzily. “No one escapes me unscathed.”

Another blow to her head and she was out.

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There had been tracks leading off into the underbrush and it took everything in Arthur not to rush off to follow them. Three of the King’s guard were dead, another badly injured, and a ransom note attached to an arrow demanded a high price for the Friend of Camelot’s return.

“Come on, sire,” said Lancelot, touching his shoulder. “The sooner we return, the sooner we can head out and rescue Merlyn.”

But Arthur had a lingering suspicion that his father would not abide a rescue. Hengist was notorious for his ruthless army of men; it would take an army of their own to face him off.

When he faced his father with the ransom note in the council chamber, he saw the same knowledge in his pale eyes. Morgana, however, was not to be dissuaded.

“You must send a rescue party!” she demanded, the scratches on her face standing stark against her pale skin. Beside her, Farah kept a soothing hand on her arm.

The King released a slow breath, eyes on the ransom note in his hand. “If Hengist is holding the maid, it would take a small army to rescue her.”

The highborn stared at him, aghast, and Arthur feared a scene was about to occur.

Morgana cried, “We cannot abandon her!”

“We will not,” said the King, and relief rolled over Arthur's tense shoulders. He’d have done something regardless, but it would be nice not to need subtly. “She is a Friend of Camelot and it is our duty to uphold our oath.” He sighed in annoyance. “We must pay the ransom.”

That grated at the prince’s sense of pride. If they paid the ransom and Merlyn was returned to him, what would stop it from happening again?

“Perhaps,” he started, gaining the attention of the council and his father. “A strike team would be efficient.”

“If they are caught, Merlyn could be executed!” Morgana argued, and Arthur held up his hands to placate even as he stared at his father.

“We know that a battle will waste our resources, but if myself and one or two men sneak into the castle under cover of night, there will be no need to bow to Hengist’s demands. You know as well as I that there is only one place he can reside if he commanded the ransom paid at the Veil of Denaria. It is a well-fortified stronghold, but it will have weaknesses that a small unit can exploit.”

The King shook his head. “I will not risk your safety for the girl. She may have a position of trust, but she is not the Crown Prince; you are.” Arthur opened his mouth to argue but his father held up his hand. “My decision is final. We will pay the ransom and hope your servant is returned unscathed.”

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_TBC…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the fight scene is a bit scattered or unclear. I’ll probably come back and edit it later but I’m heading off to my next shift in about two minutes and wanted to post something for you patient people. Thanks so much for reading!


	7. The Un-noble Noble and The Escapee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surprise guest!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy this one. It has a little treat for you all, and was very enjoyable to write. Also: I pulled information about Hengist from historical tales since there was so little about him in Canon. Just to bear in mind.

“Rise and shine, My Lady,” said a man’s rasping voice. An unfamiliar man’s voice.

Merlyn's head pounded furiously, originating from an expansive knot at the back of her skull. She groaned pitifully and there was a soft rasp of laughter before meaty hands grabbed her shoulders and pulled her upright. She gasped at the change in position and felt saliva pool in her mouth as her stomach rose to her throat.

“I hear you are the reason for our failure to secure the Lady Morgana,” the raspy voice continued, and his rancid breath washed over her face. That was the last straw for her belly and she doubled over as it tried to push itself out her throat.

“Oho ho!” laughed the man, the hands leaving her arms as he leapt away to avoid wearing her sick. “Seems you may have been a bit rough in your handling, Kendrick.”

“I had to be sure she wouldn’t attempt a second escape,” the bandit replied unapologetically. “She is as sneaky as a thief. I still not know how she frayed the rope.”

“That is no matter now,” said the apparent leader as she finished hurling her guts. Her head throbbed from the pressure of vomiting and she fell back in exhaustion. “Give her a few minutes then bring her up to the feast. I’ll greet her there.”

Merlyn assumed Kendrick nodded because there was no verbal reply. There was the tread of heavy feet, the sharp grind of metal on metal – piercing her ears like pickaxes – and the click of a lock setting into place before the boots stomped away. She still felt the eyes of another person on her though, and assumed it was Kendrick, waiting for her to wake properly.

She waited until the throbbing in her crown eased before she dared open her eyes and was grateful that the cell was dim. She blinked a few times to clear her blurry vision, though one eye refused to focus entirely no matter what she did. Of all the times to have a concussion…

Gingerly, she pushed herself into a seated position, seeing that she was resting upon a simple wooden slab built into the cell wall, like a wide bench seat. Kendrick was waiting by the locked door, leaning against the solid bars as if he had all the time in the world. His eyes tracked her movements but there was a smugness in his stance, an assurance that she was too damaged to be dangerous. As much as she hated to admit it, even with magic, he might be right.

Dismissing him for a moment, she took in the rest of the ‘room’. It was bare of any other adornment, walls solid on all three sides save the one containing the door, perhaps six strides by four if she were pacing. Only a small grate high on one wall and a small chamber pot tucked into a corner broke the monotony of the dreary space.

The smell of vomit was strong, and she peered over the edge of the bedframe to see a small puddle on the floor. She grimaced, glad she’d managed to avoid her clothes in her semiconscious state.

“It seems you were hit with a bit more enthusiasm than was warranted,” Kendrick said idly, drawing her attention. “But then, I’m not one to judge.”

Her hand moved to the back of her head carefully, encountering a mess of matted hair where the blood had glued it together. It was still damp, though the worst of the bleeding appeared to have stopped. Head wounds bled a lot naturally, but it was a little disconcerting to feel it soak through her thick mane. If she was a little steadier, she might have tried to heal herself; as it were, she couldn’t risk it with such an area as important as her head. If she caused pressure to build inside her cranium, she could collapse into a seizure and die.

“I suggest you stand, kitten,” Kendrick said. “You’ll be required at the feast soon enough.”

She glowered but did as he said. No need to cause herself more pain than necessary. Not until she felt healthier, at least.

To her relief, her legs were solid beneath her as she pushed herself upright, and her careful change in position didn’t aggravate her headache. She edged around the mess of vomit and straightened her tunic with as much dignity as she could. Kendrick smirked at her and pushed himself lazily off the bars to open the door. Good, he was still cocky. She could use that later.

He took a hold of her arm as she stepped out of her prison and led her through a maze of corridors and staircases to, what appeared to be, the Celebrations Hall. Merlyn tried her best to memorise their path but her pressing headache made focusing difficult.

Finally, the sound of revelry and jeering grew louder, and Merlyn was trotted through a side chamber into a room that exploded with noise – which thrummed in her sensitive ears.

“Ah!” cried the same husky voice as before, rising over the din. “Our honoured guest arrives!”

The men cheered and shouted but Merlyn's attention was caught by the broad-shouldered, bald-headed man who spoke. He stood behind a long table piled with food, shawled in a white pelt as jewelled rings and thick necklaces adorned his body. Behind him, a throne-like chair awaited.

However, despite his obvious status, he was shadowed with dirt just as much as the rest of them. It appeared cleanliness among these men was low a low priority.

He moved around the long table and stopped in front of her with a grin. He bowed with his arms wide, mocking. “How kind of you to join us, My Lady.”

Merlyn shook off Kendrick’s arm and glowered at the man before her. She retorted sarcastically, “I would have come earlier if it were not for a mild headache that laid me low.”

The warlord roared with laughter, with more humour than she thought her wit merited. The men joined him in his amusement.

“You’re funny,” he husked, as he calmed. “My name is Hengist. Welcome to my humble abode.” He threw out his arms, as if she should be impressed by his filthy castle with his filthy men. Who had a giant cage in the middle of their Celebration Hall, anyway?

“Kendrick failed to earn your name, My Lady. A rude oversight that I shall not repeat.”

The prompt was unmistakeable, and she glowered at him as she bit out, “My name is Merlyn, and you were wrong to take me.”

There was a pause before Hengist and his men burst into laughter once more. “You are spirited,” the warlord cried. “That is good. I like spirit!”

With that, he grabbed her arm and led her around the table to an empty seat at his right hand – normally a place of honour, but she was not flattered. She was pushed into place and a plate heaped with bloody meats was set in front of her. She grimaced and glanced away but the men around her were worse, brown teeth stripping lengths of raw meat from bone held in grubby hands while blood and juices slid down chins and beards uncaringly.

She ignored the revelry around her, not engaging with the strange man to her right, nor Hengist, who seemed content to let her stew as he chatted with a man on his other side, barking with merriment and slapping his hand on the cluttered table as he gulped down tankards of ale.

Eventually, he finished his conversation and turned to see her scowling out at the crowd, the feral men chatting and shoving each other as they chewed like cows on cud. He grinned at her displeasure and stood, shouting, “Silence!”

Everyone quieted and turned to the warlord. “Our honoured guest, Lady Merlyn, has grown bored!” he leered at his men and they shuffled in anticipation. “She needs _entertaining_.”

They jeered and crowded around the large cage in the centre of the room while Hengist nodded at someone by the corner of the fence. A grate against the far wall, covering a roughly hewn, man-sized hole in the stone, was pulled upwards and a tall, broad, muscly warrior strutted into the cage, wearing little more than a loin cloth for modesty. He appeared exactly like the paintings of the gladiators from Rome and Merlyn wondered if that was where he had drawn inspiration; the warrior didn’t have the features to be an actual roman.

“Bring on the challenger!” the warlord roared.

Out of the same tunnel appeared a man of average appearance, dressed in regular, if grubby and torn, clothes. His hair was dark brown, hanging just above his shoulders in loose waves. His face was scruffy with stubble, but it did not disguise his regal features. He was a bit battered and bruised, his bottom lip cut and his left eye swollen and purple, but he still appeared more as a knight than a ruffian, posture proud and predatory; Merlyn was intrigued.

“Only one of you will emerge from the cage alive,” Hengist called, an eager grin splitting his round face. “Do you accept the challenge?”

“Hah!” said the regal-looking man, his accent the lilting tone of the Western Isles. “You haven’t given me much of a choice, have yeh?”

“Bah!” growled Hengist, standing in his outrage. “It is you who seduced my daughter, planning to bed her in a tavern like some common wench!”

The man chuffed, twirling the sword in his hand with obvious skill. “Well,” he said and by his tone, Merlyn just knew he was about to say something cutting. “When a lady comes to you, alone and begging for company, how can you say no?”

Hengist roared and waved at the gladiator to attack, who did with gusto. With a casual sort of grace, the man spun under the high arc of his aggressor’s arm then raised his weapon and thumped him on the back of the head with his hilt. The gladiator went down like a sack of bricks and groaned pitifully on the floor. He didn’t rise.

The cheers of the men faltered at the quick battle before it rose once more, coins exchanging hands as the winner was made clear. Merlyn glanced at Hengist and saw he was fuming at the insult the man’s easy win brought.

The gate guard glanced to the warlord, who reluctantly nodded, and it was opened for the man to come through. He did so with a strut in his step, the blade of his sword resting laxly against his shoulder. The men around him kept their hands on their own weapons, ready for a command or incentive.

“What is your name, scum?” asked Hengist when he stopped in front of the long table.

The man tilted his head, shooting Merlyn a glance and a wink before he said lightly, “Gwaine, Your High and Mightiness.”

“And what,” began Hengist in a dangerous tone. “Gave you the right to think my daughter would ever bed vermin like you?”

“Well, for one,” replied Gwaine, brow furrowed as if in thought. “She came to me of her own volition. And two,” here a cheeky grin pulled at his lips. “Moaning in my ear as I carried her up the stairs was a bit of a giveaway.”

Merlyn blushed at the insinuation and dropped her eyes in embarrassment. She might talk a little loosely with Gwen and Morgana, but they were women and trusted friends. To hear a strange man say such things so nonchalantly was a bit disconcerting.

Hengist startled her from her fluster when he roared in rage, leaping to his feet with his sword sliding free. Immediately, three other blades were directed to Gwaine’s throat as the man tried to bring his weapon to bear in response. He froze when he felt the sharp points against his skin but lifted his chin defiantly.

Despite herself – and despite his crude attitude – Merlyn liked him. If what he was saying was true, he had done nothing more than entertain a willing woman, one who had come to him without provocation or pretty promises. And he stood his ground even when threatened; she had to respect that.

“Wait,” she said when Hengist appeared ready to behead him right there. Surprisingly, the warlord paused, probably startled by her gall. Gwaine, too, was watching her with interest, chest rising and falling rapidly. Now she had to think of something to stop him dying.

“Er, has he not proven himself a capable warrior, defeating his challenger at your behest?” she asked, looking at Hengist with an eyebrow raised. “Would it not be a little… disgraceful to slay a victor at the moment of his triumph?”

“Listen to the lady, lads,” suggested Gwaine and Merlyn gritted her teeth.

“You shut up,” she said, annoyed that he would continue to draw attention when she was trying to save him.

He snorted softly but obeyed and Hengist stared at Gwaine with a cold glint in his pale eyes.

“Humph,” he eventually said, sliding his sword back into its scabbard. At this motion, the tension in the air eased a little and the blades at his throat lifted from his skin, though they hovered in the air while his own weapon remained in hand.

“It is true that beheading you would not be anguish enough for your disrespect. I want you to _suffer_.” Hengist sat down and waved at his men. Several pressed in on Gwaine and relieved him of his sword, pulling his arms behind his back. Naturally, Gwaine struggled and Hengist added with a sneer, “Tomorrow night, you can face the Wilddeoren. Let us see how Lady Merlyn enjoys _that_ entertainment!”

Gwaine’s face remained stoic but she saw a flicker of fear in his eyes; so the Wilddeoren was bad news. She turned to the warlord as Gwaine was dragged away, though she tracked which exit they used.

“What is the Wilddeoren?”

Hengist made another motion to the man who controlled the wall gate and the barrier to the tunnel beyond was lifted once more. “The Wilddeoren,” he began as a hairless, ugly, horse-sized… rat thing crawled from the tunnel. It sniffed the air with its pig-snout nose, seemingly using it as a guide instead of eyes. It approached the gladiator who had pushed himself groggily onto his knees and the man backed away like a frightened child, crying for help. “Is my pet.”

Suddenly, the creature lunged forward, and its large, rat-like teeth sunk into the gladiator’s neck. His screams gurgled wetly, and Merlyn blanched, horrified.

“Have you no mercy!” she cried, jumping to her feet to stare at the warlord, stomach rolling at the awful sounds coming from the cage – and the men’s cheers as they watched.

“Mercy achieves nothing,” Hengist said dismissively, picking up a large thigh bone with raw meat dangling loosely from torn tendons. Merlyn felt sick.

“How can you be so callous?” she demanded. “Everyone deserves mercy! How can you act like they are nothing?”

“Do not act so righteous, My Lady,” Hengist said, a slight warning in his tone. “It does not become you.”

“It is not righteousness!” she shouted. “It is _compassion_! You are so blinded by your own ignorance and stupidity that you cannot see basic human emotions!”

The warlord slammed his meat on the table and stood up, towering over her unsteady frame. Broad-shouldered and cloaked in pelts, he far outshined her in means of intimidation. But she refused to cower.

“You would do well to remember whose castle you reside within, Lady Merlyn,” he growled, the husk in his voice growing more prominent with his irritation. “I do not need to be so courteous.”

She bared her teeth at him. “Then drop the act and stop trying to be civilised,” she dared.

“So be it,” he returned and pointed at a man. “Take her back to her cell. She can go without food and water until we receive her ransom. Perhaps that will remind her how Ladies are supposed to act in the presence of a Lord.”

The man’s hand gripped her arm and pulled her from her place. She shot back, beyond mad as she was dragged away, “I know how to act around Lords – but I have yet to come across any in this castle!”

“And gag her too,” Hengist shouted.

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Arthur clenched his fists atop the parapet as he glared out at the courtyard and lower town. He had planned to sneak out and fetch Merlyn himself, but his father had predicted his actions and posted guards outside his room. They had relieved him of his sword when he tried to leave and followed him around like they were stray pups. He glanced over to the doorway where the regular sentry stood and glowered at the two extras that waited beside him.

Damn his father! Damn his rules! He should be out there right now, hunting the cretins who dared take her. What if she tried to escape and was harmed? She wasn't exactly one to sit around and wait.

And what if... What if they harmed her in other ways? They were men who lacked honour; it would take little to provoke them into acting like beasts.

“She’ll be alright,” said Lancelot, startling Arthur from his ruminations. He looked over to see his friend approaching from the doorway, stepping out onto the grassed area with a knowing expression on his face. “She’s stronger than she seems, smarter than she appears… and she has magic.”

The last bit was little more than a murmur, carried to the prince as a whisper on the breeze. Nevertheless, he shot the guards by the door a furtive glance before glaring at Lancelot.

"Be cautious,” he grumbled. “The walls have ears."

"Apologies, sire,” he replied, dipping his head as he came to a halt beside him. “I believed you came up here because it was private."

Arthur rolled his eyes, unable to dispute him, and Lancelot said nothing more as he looked out at the courtyard below.

After a moment of silence, Arthur asked, "How can you be so calm? Are you not worried she will be harmed?"

Lancelot kept his gaze over the city as he said, "I will always worry. Merlyn is my friend and a reckless one at that, but,” he sighed. “She is smart, and skilled. If I cannot help her then I must trust that she will triumph on her own. She has been in many far worse scrapes and come out victorious.” He huffed a soft laugh and added, “She also told me once that worrying means you suffer twice.”

Arthur couldn’t help but chuckle. “That sounds like Merlyn,” he murmured, nodding.

Lancelot turned to him and the blonde turned to meet his eyes. “Sire,” he said solemnly. “I know I speak out of turn, but I must beg you not to judge Merlyn for the means she may use to escape. She is not a swordsman, nor a warrior; her skillset is more refined and subtle. There is every chance she will use it to her advantage.”

Arthur kept Lancelot's gaze, judging his motives, before he said, “She may not try to escape. She will know there is a ransom to be paid for her release.” He ignored that he had been thinking similar thoughts to Lancelot not two minutes earlier. Merlyn did not sit idly while things were to be done.

The brown-haired knight’s passive stare said that Arthur was fooling no one and the prince found he couldn’t hold it, dropping his eyes back to the lower town spread before them. Dusk was rolling in, the shadows creeping long for the people below, though he was still bathed in the sun’s warm rays, raised above the city as he was.

“If she finds the need acceptable, I do not plan to condemn her for breaking her oath. Desperate times call for desperate measures. But that does not mean I condone her use of it so blatantly and often. Sorcery corrupts, and exposing herself to it so openly will only corrupt her more.”

“Sire…” Lancelot began, then trailed off as his confidence failed. Usually, Arthur would push him to speak openly, but, this time, he did not want to hear what the other man would say. The ex-nomad did not grow up in Camelot, so he did not see the anguish and torment magic brought. His father had dedicated twenty years of his life – most of his reign as King – to stomp out the dark art. Such dedication, such steadfastness, could not grow from lies.

“It will all be over soon,” Arthur said, speaking more to himself than Lancelot. The ransom would be paid, Merlyn would re-join him in Camelot, she would create the Magical Cuff and be free of her curse. And he would have his… friend back. “Merlyn will be safe again soon.”

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The moment Merlyn was left alone, she ripped the gag from her mouth and licked her cracked lips to ease the dryness, glaring at the cell bars. Why Hengist had ordered her gagged but left her hands unbound, she didn’t know. Perhaps it was a gesture of dominance more than an attempt to silence her; a reminder of the control he held.

But shame on him, for she didn’t plan to linger.

She moved to the door and pressed her face against the cell bars to check the shadowed hallway was empty before holding her hand over the lock and whispering, “ _Aetynan_.”

Her eyes flashed at the same time a sharp pain pierced her skull and she winced as her concentration was broken. Without testing, she knew the spell had failed, and she cursed as her headache flared anew.

“Bother,” she whispered to herself as she slouched back to her bed slab, rubbing her temples. She avoided the puddle of vomit still present and lowered herself with a puff of irritation. It appeared she would need to let her concussion mend itself some before she could escape.

She pushed herself further onto the bed and leant against the stone wall, folding her legs beneath her. She rested her hands on her knees and closed her eyes with a fortifying breath. She didn’t know if it was a placebo affect or it truly did work but Merlyn always felt better after deep meditation. She had first needed it to expand her magical awareness, but now, she had found it dulled her aches and pains after a day of labour – like some sort of universal, magical healing.

And it was that aided healing that she sought now. She may be a Friend of Camelot, but Gaius had told her that it only improved her status so much. If the circumstances to save her would put the kingdom at peril or cause a war, more than likely, she would be left to fend for herself. Camelot was a wealthy kingdom with fertile lands and easy coin, but Merlyn wasn’t sure if her position was enough to warrant such expense and indignity as to pay a ransom. And a quiet, demoralised part of her heart whispered that Arthur might not come for her if that were so.

She sucked in a deep breath and shook the thought away before it unravelled her concentration. With her situation and concussion, her emotions were a little raw, and thinking of Arthur and his opinions always cut her deeply. But she had more immediate things to focus on.

It was difficult at first, as her headache left her dizzy and closing her eyes did not help her feel centred. However, with effort, the giddiness passed, and her pain eased, and she let her awareness drift.

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It was deep into the night when Merlyn escaped her cell. She would have been a little insulted by the lack of guards stationed at her prison if she wasn’t thanking her good fortune. Arrogance was one of the easiest emotions to exploit, so she was glad Kendrick’s attitude wasn’t an isolated one within the stronghold.

And on top of such good luck, Merlyn felt much better than she had before. She still had a headache pressing behind her eyes but the dizziness, discoordination, and urge to vomit had vanished.

Her cell door unlocked without a hitch, once the lone patrolman had wandered past, and she wasted no time in darting down the opposite corridor and out of sight. If the guard kept his routine, it would be another hour before he neared her prison again, leaving her plenty of time to find Gwaine and make it out of the stronghold. As long as she ran into no other guards.

And as long as she could _find_ Gwaine.

With no other choice, Merlyn retraced her steps to the Celebrations Hall. She had been more aware during her return journey to the cell, so she remembered the way without much hesitation, only darting off course when sentries strolled by. The walls were bare of adornment and lacked the casual grace of a palace built for ruling. This place had, very obviously, been a fortress in the past, which told her she was near a border between warring lands – or what had once been a border since the building was old and unkept, very nearly crumbling at the seams. Nevertheless, fortresses often contained secret tunnels and passageways, which was good information to have if she only knew where they were, and which ones would lead her beyond the stronghold. Alas, without an architectural draft, such knowledge was useless.

Merlyn reached the Celebrations Hall without discovery and found the large, double doors had been left wide open as if to invite her within. The room beyond was dark, no torches or moonbeams to spear light but Merlyn had no need of outside aid. A whispered word had her vision adjusting until everything was cast in greys and dull greens, the gloom lifted so she could see clear. She ventured through the room slowly, grimacing at the rats skittering away at her presence, having feasted on the meat and ale spilled upon the floor. She felt the stickiness on the bottom of her boots, the chunks of unrecognisable detritus suctioning to her soles, and was glad that she would soon be out of such a barbaric atmosphere.

She reached the side door where Gwaine had been dragged and halted, checking her surroundings before whispering, “ _Onhwirfedness seon, drýlác gerihtrece mín stíg_.”

She felt the tell-tale flash of heat across her irises and her night-vision stretched oddly before the tracks left behind by the people who ventured the area bloomed to life in a miasma of iridescent colours. It didn’t help her lingering headache, which throbbed anew at the lightshow, but she could be grateful she was not in a forest, where everything living glowed under her spell. She saw evidence of paths taken by many men, strings of light branching, criss-crossing, swaying and boomeranging, but one trail stood out among the rest, flickering in blobs of red flame like the will-o’-the-wisps in highland tales. This was the one she was looking for.

She reached out to touch the first blot of light, red fire licking towards the ceiling like a candleflame, and felt an odd, extrasensory tingle in her chest. She didn’t know how, or why, but she knew that this crimson ember was an echo of the inferno that burned in Gwaine's heart. This lightshow, this energy, _was_ Gwaine. It was his strength, his will, his soul. And, somehow, her magic had recognised it enough to replicate it.

Merlyn didn’t understand the laws of the spell enough to know if it was normal but, somewhere inside, she suspected that Gwaine was special. In the same way that Arthur was special, with his aura as golden as the sun.

She didn’t hesitate to follow the path, moving swiftly with the knowledge that time was running short. She ghosted down narrow corridor after narrow corridor, moving deeper into the bowels of the castle while avoiding the occasional patrolmen. The stone was all the same drab brown, and the lack of any windows made her feel like she was one of those sacrificial maidens trapped in the minotaur’s maze – and, if she didn’t get a move on, she would soon be hunted like one.

Merlyn tiptoed down a tight spiral staircase but paused with a hand on the middle spire as the noises of other people echoed off the walls. There was the hard clatter of dice on a wooden table and the rumbles of two men conversing, unmoving from their position: probably sentries guarding the dungeons. Merlyn squatted on her step and used the spire as a handhold, so she could peer around the stairwell to see her adversaries below. There were two of them, looking quite drunk as they gambled and played. Regardless, their table was set up with a perfect view of the staircase, and perfectly in her way.

It was with great pleasure that she used her magic to lift a loose piece of masonry and cracked them both over the head, watching them slump onto the table with a satisfied nod. Perhaps they would wake on the morrow believing their headaches were nothing more than a hangover.

She snatched the jingling keyring from the belt of the tallest one and hurried along the dark, narrow hallway that boasted cells at regular intervals. Through the darkness, she could see no shadows of people inside and was relieved at not needing to stage another mass breakout like the one in Camelot. Only one held a captive, and it was the one she sought.

Reclined on his back with an arm behind his head, twiddling a piece of musty straw, was Gwaine. It was hard to make out more than his silhouette in the gloom, but there was no doubt it was him.

“Psst,” she hissed, whispering despite knowing that they were alone. No need to grow overconfident.

Gwaine jerked and sat up, squinting through the darkness to see his visitor. “Who’s there?” he asked.

“The only friend you have in this place,” she returned, and jammed a key into the lock. It didn’t budge so she flipped through to another and tried once more.

“I don’t have any friends,” he replied, climbing to his feet as yet another key failed. He was little more than a darker shadow against the wall, but she saw him tilt his head and wished she could see his expression.

“Well,” she hissed, annoyed that there were so many sets on the ring. Honestly, how many did they need? What were they all for? “You have one now.”

Finally! The lock clicked obediently, and she pushed the gate wide, wincing as it squealed on old hinges. She glanced back towards the unconscious guards and hoped no one else was near enough to grow suspicious.

Gwaine approached slowly and she moved aside so he could step from his cage. Now he was out, the distant torches of the guard station touched his features softly and illuminated them for her inspection. He stared at her also but his expression not one of flirty appreciation – something she was fairly sure was his standard. Instead, it was one of keen study, and sat much more genuinely upon his features.

“Lady Merlyn,” he greeted, dipping his head, and she wasn’t sure if it was in mockery or not. She raised an eyebrow anyway.

“Odd show of manners when before you had none,” she commented, and his eyes narrowed as if he couldn’t decide whether to be offended or to accept the truth of her words. She shrugged, adding, “Hengist deserved it.”

“Why are you here?” he asked, putting his hands on his hips.

“Well,” she said slowly. “I didn’t plan on staying around for Hengist to play with, and I figured you like living, right? Your punishment is hardly befitting your crime, and I don’t really like to stand by while injustice happens.”

“And who exactly are you, Lady Merlyn?” he asked suspiciously.

“Me?” she said in confusion. “I’m no one, just a servant.”

“Hengist does not treat servants like he treated you,” he stated, and Merlyn sighed.

“I was with the Lady Morgana when they attacked. She managed to escape but I did not and Hengist seems to think that this medallion –” she pulled out the necklace with her thumb, displaying the metal piece hanging from the chain but let it go when it was obvious the light was insufficient to identify it, “– makes me important enough to pay for.” She glanced towards the guards again and added, “We should go.”

She marched back up the cellblock and, after a pause, he followed suit. He let out a low whistle as he eyed the downed men. “Full of surprises, aren’t you?” he said rhetorically then bent over to frisk them for useful items.

Merlyn hung back, keeping a wary eye on the staircase but Gwaine soon turned to her with one of the guard’s swords. “Here,” he said. “Better to be armed than not, eh?”

She took it from him gingerly and said, “My master would disagree with you. I’m rather terrible with a blade.”

Gwaine stooped once more and unbelted the taller man to re-cinch the leather about his own waist, sliding the attached sword free to examine the blade. “So,” he asked. “Do you have a getaway plan?”

“Of sorts?” she said. “It’s a work in progress. You wouldn’t happen to know any escape routes, would you?”

He looked up and chuffed a laugh. “I was unconscious when they brought me in. I only know the way to the tunnel behind the cage.”

Merlyn paused. “Behind the cage?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said, sheathing the sword once he was satisfied with its condition. He tossed his head to flick some hair out of his eyes. “I had to get there somehow for my grand entrance tonight.”

“Right,” she agreed, mind whirling. “Could you lead us back there?”

He shrugged. “Don’t see why not.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” she asked, trotting towards the spiral staircase.

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“So, you are the Lady Morgana's maid?” Gwaine asked as they edged around corners and dodged patrols. Why he felt the need to make conversation now was anyone’s guess.

“No,” she corrected quietly. “Lady Morgana is my friend. I’m the Prince of Camelot’s servant.”

There was a beat of silence before he said with humour, “My condolences. Serving a prince.” he blew out a puff of air. “Does he throw tantrums when things don’t go his way?”

Merlyn snorted and replied, “He has been known to throw objects when he’s upset. Does that count?”

Gwaine laughed, perhaps louder than he should have, and she hastily shushed him, cocking her head to listen for any threats.

“Perhaps, when we are free of this place, you should not return to your prince,” he suggested with a flirtatious eyebrow raised. “Travel with me. I can take you places you’ve not imagined in your wildest dreams.”

“Hmm,” she said, raising her own eyebrows challengingly. “I have a pretty wild imagination.”

He grinned at her banter and leant in to whisper, “So do I.”

She muffled a snort of laughter with her hand then shook her head, feeling the need to stress her standing. “I’m flattered,” she said. “Truly. But I’m not like –” she flapped her hand back in the direction they’d come, “– Hengist’s daughter, or-or the bar wenches. I don’t,” she blushed. “I’m happy where I am.”

“Bah,” he said, though he didn’t appear offended by her words. “You have a stronger will than I. I stay far away from nobility. I’ve found it’s easier on my conscience.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, not understanding his context.

He shot her a brittle smile as they neared a corner. “Let’s just say your prince and I would not get along.”

“He’s not like most nobles,” she said. “He’s a good man.”

Gwaine peered around the edge of the wall but paused and glanced back at her with realisation in his eyes. “Ah,” he said, and she frowned.

“What?”

“You love him,” he stated, and she sputtered.

“That – that has nothing –”

“Easy, lass,” he said lifting his hands passively. “I only meant that it makes sense for you to want to stick by his side, despite his… status.”

“That has nothing to do with my opinion of him,” she defended. “I am perfectly capable of judging someone by their merits alone.”

“I agree,” he said, resituating his sword and risking another glance to check the corridor was still clear. “You’re smarter than many people I’ve met.”

He moved around the corner and she followed, unsure how to reply. She finally settled on, “What is your story, anyway? Whence do you hail?”

“Eh,” he waved the question away flippantly. “My tale is nothing exciting.”

“I would still like to hear it.”

He glanced at her then said reluctantly, “I come from a low noble family within Caerleon’s realm. My father served in the King’s army, but he died in battle, leaving my mother penniless. She went to the King for help and he turned her away.” He gave a mirthless smile and concluded, “That is why I know never to trust nobles; they do not care for anyone else but themselves.”

“Not all are like that,” she argued softly, disliking the hollow expression on his face. “The Prince of Camelot is a good man. He cares for his people – has been willing to die so that they may prosper.”

Gwaine shrugged dismissively. “Perhaps. But I won’t hold my breath for _one_ when he is overshadowed by so many others. What is one good deed amongst so many bad?”

Merlyn frowned, his question almost humorous in its absurdity. “One good deed may not change the world, but it can change a life. Kindness cannot be measured by the size of its effects, only by the effort given. But I think,” she added with a firm nod. “If everyone did a little good, we could all do something great. Imagine a land where each person did just one act of kindness a day; would that not be a place to liken to paradise?”

For many seconds, there was nothing but the rustle of their clothes as they walked, the quiet sounds of their breaths mingling with the air of the castle. “I do not think I have met anyone like you, Merlyn,” Gwaine eventually said.

“I am not so unique,” she dismissed, huffing a small laugh at the thought. “You have simply blinkered yourself to the goodness in the world.” She glanced over at him with a smile. “Perhaps this one act of kindness will change _your_ life.”

They were silent as they continued, and Merlyn hoped it was reflective on Gwaine's part. Living with such an isolated outlook had to be hard on the soul. He seemed a good man, and good men deserved happiness.

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They made it three levels before the warning bell tolled. Gwaine cursed and quickened his pace, Merlyn following with haste, only to slam into his back as he jolted to a halt before a corner.

“Sorry!” she whispered, moving backwards as he positioned himself to strike. The sound of boots thundered closer, at least four though it was hard to tell. Merlyn feared Gwaine was outmatched; it would be difficult to defeat so many without drawing more attention. She flexed her hand, wondering if it was worth it, but she did not know her ally very well and she didn’t want to alienate her only path to freedom. What if he turned on her after seeing her magic?

With a feral grin, Gwaine spun around the corner and the yelp of an injured foe reached her ears. The thud of boots hitting ground stuttered into disorder and there was a clash of steel against steel. Merlyn darted around the bend as a bandit’s body flopped lifelessly at her feet.

Before her, Gwaine battled two opponents skilfully, his grace with a weapon innate and impressive. Three more lingered behind their mates, eager to join but unable in the narrow corridor, an advantage Gwaine was using instinctively.

He knocked one guard away then twirled his blade around the other’s sword, locking it in place to wrench from his hand. Afterward, he punched him clear in the face and the man crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.

Merlyn grabbed the guard Gwaine had twirled around by the back of his shirt and shoved his face into the wall, using a bit of magic to strengthen her hit. He collapsed, and she spun, ready to face more strays, only to find the other two already falling to the ground in unconsciousness. Gwaine turned to her with a grin stretched irreverently on his lips, shaking his hair from his face like a proud pup.

“Come on, lass,” he panted. “We have freedom to find.”

Then one of the downed guards lunged upwards and Gwaine gasped, hands clapping over the sword buried in his side. The fallen guard snarled in victory, his bloody nose dribbling onto his teeth, and Merlyn thrust out her hand without a thought, eyes heating as she threw the man away. He skidded across the floor and slammed into the wall at the end of the hallway, letting out a soft puff of air as consciousness fled, and Merlyn rushed to Gwaine's side as he slumped against the wall.

“Let me see,” she said as she braced him so he didn’t slide to the ground. She knocked his hand away from where it covered the growing red stain on his side. “Let me see.”

She tore apart the tunic where the sword had sliced through and peered at the wound to examine its seriousness. The awkward angle made it hard to judge, as the blade had slid up between his ribcage, but he had most certainly punctured a lung. She was just thankful it was on his right side and not his left, for he might have died already.

“You have magic,” he mumbled, and she tensed, glancing up at his face. He didn’t appear accusatory.

“I was born with it,” she said, turning back to his wound. She still felt too unsteady with her concussion to cast a healing charm, not wanting to cause internal bleeding if she messed it up, but magic was not her only skill. She grabbed the bottom of her tunic and gave it a good wrench, tearing the fabric along the threads the entire way around the hem.

“You’re a witch?” he asked, and she jerked in surprise, staring up at him again.

“You know the difference?” she questioned, surprised the nomad would be so knowledgeable. She tore another layer off her tunic and bunched it up, using his hand to press it against the wound. “Hold that,” she ordered.

He grinned and the trace of blood on his teeth had her grimacing in displeasure. Not good. “I told you earlier,” he groaned, flinching when she wrapped the strip of cloth around his torso and bound it over the ball of fabric covering his injury. “I am very well-travelled.”

Distant boots stomped upon the ground, growing louder as another group approached, and the black-haired girl decided her curiosity could wait until they were safer.

“Come on,” she said, hitching his arm around her shoulder. “Lead us to the doorway.”

“Leave me,” Gwaine muttered, staggering as she pulled him from the wall with effort. “I’ll only slow you down.”

“Stop that,” she hissed, panting with the effort of taking his weight. He coughed wetly, and she knew blood was filling his lungs. “I didn’t take you as a martyr.”

“I’m not,” he rasped, and the scent of copper was strong on his breath. “I just know a fatal wound when I see one.”

They stumbled down a second corridor, the black-haired girl having to use the wall to brace herself so her knees wouldn’t fold beneath his weight. “I’m insulted at your lack of faith in my healing skills,” she wheezed. “I have been schooled by the Royal Physician of Camelot, thank you, and you are not dying today.”

“I thought,” he panted. “That you… were a servant.”

“I… guess I sort of defy classification,” she said.

“That much… is clear,” he huffed then said abruptly, “Here.”

They lurched into the wall as they drew to a halt and Gwaine grunted at the impact. To Merlyn, the corridor appeared identical to the ones they’d already ventured but Gwaine reached out an unsteady hand and pulled on the torch bracket near her head. It folded down with a rusty squeak and a sliver of wall beside them shifted with a reluctant grind of stone. With a shove of their combined weight, the wall inched inwards with a heavy scrape and, before them, stretched a long path of inky blackness.

Merlyn leant Gwaine against the roughly carved wall and turned to shove the secret door closed again, only managing it with the aid of her magic. She slumped against the stone with a relieved puff then held out her hand, palm up to conjure some light. “ _Liethe Blæcern_!”

A soft blue bubble rose above her head, illuminating the length of the long tunnel they were to traverse as well as highlighting the starkness of Gwaine’s pallor.

“Come on,” she whispered, her voice echoing against the stone, the air frigid like a tomb. She moved to his side and repositioned herself under his arm, heaving him off the wall and lurching drunkenly as she steadied herself. He tried to help but he was growing worse by the minute, breath cracking wetly as blood filled his lung. “Let’s get out of here.”

With a few tottering steps, they moved forward, side-by-side into the mountain.

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The scout returned to Hengist as the warning bells tolled around him. An envoy from Camelot was headed towards the Veil of Denaria.

“Find her!” he shouted at his men, face heating with his rage. “Search every crack and crevice! Tear this place apart! Bring her to me alive!”

“What of the man?” asked Kendrick and Hengist spun on him in fury.

“Cut off his head!”

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“Tell me,” Gwaine wheezed. “About yourself.”

“Not much to tell,” Merlyn panted, adjusting his arm over her shoulders in a vain attempt to ease the strain. “I’m just a simple villager who moved to the big city.”

The ground was dusty rock and the walls rough-hewn stone, lacking any windows or brackets for torches. It smelled of deep earth and the sharp metallic stench of bared stone, stinging her nose in the chill of the underground. The path was not overly windy or long, but it narrowed occasionally and jutted from the sides, forcing Merlyn to stoop awkwardly and shuffle sideways to make it through with Gwaine at her side.

“You were born with magic,” he countered then tilted his head to cough, the sound similar to those who suffered the flu. “There had to have been adventures when you were young.”

Merlyn smiled in the soft blue light, mind turning to the havoc she and Will caused after he discovered her abilities. “I know I love my mother more now for putting up with me then. I was a little rapscallion growing up.”

“Somehow… I doubt much has changed,” he replied with a pant of laughter.

“Hey,” she retorted, nudging him ever so gently. “I’m a model citizen, thank you.”

He laughed more vigorously only to have it turn into a coughing fit grave enough that he had to slump against the stone so he didn’t fall. Merlyn rubbed his back and tried to think of something she could do to help.

“Let me – let me try something,” she said as an idea tentatively bloomed to life. She put one hand on his back and the other on his front over his right ribcage, feeling the muscle spasms as he choked, then tried to recall the incantation that would heal his lungs if she was lucky. “ _Bat… Batian_ _lungenæder_.”

Her eyes heated but the spark of magic pulsed painfully in her temples and she jerked back with a hiss of pain. “Ow,” she grumbled, lifting her hands to her head, which throbbed anew.

“Wow,” Gwaine breathed, drawing her attention back to him. He was breathing easier, hands pressed to the stab wound with wide eyes.

“It worked?” she asked, surprised.

“It… the wound is still there but I can breathe again,” he said, looking up at her in awe.

She smiled, relieved that he was not on death’s door any longer. “If I was completely well, I’d be able to rid you of your injury altogether but,” she tapped the side of her head self-deprecatingly. “I have a headache.”

“It’s never easy, eh,” he agreed, pushing himself from the wall to test his strength. “But I can stand and walk now, which is better than before.” He flicked a strand of hair from his face and said, “Thank you.”

She shrugged. “I may not have made it out of the castle if not for your knowledge so let’s call it even.”

“Aye,” he said, and they started moving once more.

After a minute, he asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to travel with me? You’d be a fine partner for after a barfight.”

“Hah!” she scoffed and gave him a slightly rougher shove as she laughed. “Any injuries you sustain from brawling would be your own problem!”

“Ah well,” he sighed, acting put-upon. “It was a nice thought.”

She huffed and ducked under a low hanging rock only to pause suddenly at facing a thickly barred gate, melded perfectly within the irregular shape of the tunnel.

“Beyond this is the Wilddeoren’s territory,” Gwaine said. “The entrance to the cage is just to your left.” And yes, if she craned her neck against the bars, she could see a second grate blocking another pathway, much wider than the track they were on, but then, it also seconded as a temporary pen for any Wilddeoren and they were rather larger than a man.

“Means we have to be quiet,” Merlyn said, eyeing the bold hinges cupping the weathered metal of the gate. She was certain it would squeal loudly when she tried to open it, aged metal grinding against aged metal.

Thankfully, she was a servant, forced to deal with all types of chores, and she knew one that would work perfectly. “ _Ele Aethierre_ ,” she whispered and her eyes flashed gold.

She lowered the bubble of light to see if the metal was adequately lubricated and smiled in satisfaction before she murmured the unlocking spell.

“I’ve never seen sorcery be used so informally,” Gwaine commented and Merlyn grinned at him.

“Well, just because I’m a servant doesn’t mean I have to do _all_ the chores by hand.”

He grinned back, amused at the notion. “I can hardly understand people’s fear when I see you using it so lightly,” he commented. “When people cry sorcery, it’s always blood rituals and curses, not-not _housework_.”

“I guess I’m a revolutionary,” she joked, and he snorted.

“You’re something alright,” he replied with a wink.

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Hengist glowered out over the ruins of the lower parapets, the window grimy and cracked but well enough to do its duty in sheltering him and his men. But not enough to contain one stupid girl in a cell.

“What news?” he growled when he heard the quiet scrape of a boot behind him. His hand was clenched tightly around the hilt of his sword.

“Th-they must have escaped the castle,” said Kendrick and Hengist turned slowly to face him. “Every floor has been checked; there is no trail to follow.”

“They slew a handful of guards right under our noses,” he gritted out, feeling his face heat with anger. “How is there no trail? They _left_ a trail!”

“None of the exits were disturbed, Hengist,” he implored. “All of the sentries were on high alert, but they saw nothing. It’s like they disappeared into thin air.”

The bald warlord growled, stomping closer to his imbecilic companion. He asked in a quiet tone, “Did anyone check the Wilddeoren tunnels?”

Kendrick gulped and Hengist took that as an answer. “Idiots!” he shouted. “Prince Arthur and his knights are waiting in the Vale of Denaria as we speak! What do you think will happen when we don’t turn up with the girl?”

The usually cocky man took a step backward as he said, “I’ll send men out immediately. They cannot have gotten far.”

“Bring the girl to me alive! I want to speak with her before I hand her over.”

“Of course,” Kendrick said and fled from the room.

Hengist turned back to the window, teeth bared in irritation. How the waif had slipped from her cell was anyone’s guess. The locks had been undamaged, and no guard had been beguiled by her womanly charms; he would know how she bested him, shared willingly or not. He would not let such an insult stand.

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A little while later, Merlyn was cursing their lumbering stroll as they had both quite ignored the fact that they were still in danger until the sound of pursuit caught up to them. Mentally, she bemoaned their stupidity while they picked up the pace to a steady jog, Merlyn trusting Gwaine to know their route since he didn’t seem to falter as he hurried through crossways. Merlyn concentrated on brushing their footprints away with magic, hoping to throw the bandits off their trail.

She could only be glad no Wilddeoren had appeared; Gwaine had mentioned they hunted in packs.

“Only a little further,” Gwaine wheezed, hand to his side, and Merlyn was glad to hear it. She was starting to feel like prey once more, the stomps of heavy boots and bloodthirsty shouts growing louder behind them. The bandits seemed to know the tunnels well for the disappearance of Merlyn and Gwaine's footprints had not deterred them in the least; instead, she thought they might have forgone tracking altogether and were headed straight for the exit, of which she assumed – since they were so confident in their direction – there was only one.

“This way,” he puffed, tugging her to the right onto a narrow path she hadn’t noticed. The path was lighter than the previous one, enough that she could release her hold on the blue bubble and concentrate on running. She was glad they were nearing the exit, for her breath was growing short and her vision was spotting with a lightshow of stars as the throbbing in her skull worsened. She didn’t know how Gwaine, who had been dying not twenty minutes earlier, was moving so well.

They rounded a bend and the outside beckoned from the end of a long, straight run. It was predawn if the grey light was to be believed, the air cold and damp in her lungs, biting the back of her throat with each inhalation. With it, she tasted the woodsy flavour of moss and rotting things.

“There they are!” someone roared behind them and there was a holler of approval from his companions. Merlyn glanced back, unable to help herself, and spotted Kendrick dropping his unnecessary torch and leaping forward with a blade in hand. He had a ferocious grin on his face and her head throbbed in remembrance of his temper.

Gwaine's hand latched onto her own and wrenched her onwards, spinning her as they burst from the mouth of the tunnel on unsteady legs, the change from hard rock to spongy dirt throwing off their stride. Ahead, the next obstacle loomed – a sharp incline covered in moss and leaf-litter, giving her the unpleasant sensation of residing at the bottom of a bowl. It was sure to slow them too much to escape without a fight.

Gwaine seemed to realise it also, for he shoved her ahead and snapped, “Keep going. I’ll deal with these imps.”

“No!” she gasped as he turned to face their fast-approaching foes. “They’ll kill you!”

“Your lack of faith wounds me,” he jested distractedly, shaking off her hand and moving away.

She gnashed her teeth in frustration before thrusting her palm forward and shouting, “ _Ahries thæc_!”

The roof of the tunnel gave an ominous rumble then splintered with a groan, rocks and debris tumbling down onto the surprised bandits. Kendrick and another managed to dive out of the way of the cave-in but the rest were buried in rubble; Merlyn very forcefully didn’t think of whether they were dead or alive.

Gwaine herded her back several steps as Kendrick climbed dazedly out of the dust, coughing and staring back at the wall of rock where once there had been an entrance. On each side of the cave in, another opening resided, a duo of lightless black holes bracketing the rockslide in a strangely symmetrical display.

Kendrick’s single surviving cohort glanced at Merlyn and Gwaine with a terrified expression before eyeing the two other tunnels longingly, obviously understanding the superiority of Merlyn's magic. Kendrick, meanwhile, turned slowly to the pair, sword still in hand and blood trickling from a cut over his left eye.

“You have magic,” he hissed in realisation.

Merlyn lifted her chin and said, “Leave. I have no quarrel with you now.”

The brown-haired bandit laughed sardonically. “Hengist will hunt you down,” he growled.

“Because of her magic or his embarrassing inability to hold her captive?” Gwaine asked impudently, baring his teeth in a challenging grin.

“Magic can be tethered, and people can be tamed,” Kendrick replied but he took a measured step in retreat. “I expect we will see each other again.”

“Don’t be offended if I don’t give you a hug,” Merlyn shot back.

He sneered but he and his companion soon disappeared into the darkness of the right tunnel. Merlyn hoped – and felt a little guilty for her vindictiveness – that they would run into a Wilddeoren.

“Come on,” Gwaine murmured, turning to her and looking up at the deer’s track of a path winding up the uneven, slippery slope. His expression was of reluctant resignation and Merlyn agreed with his silent aversion. His side and her head were sure to suffer the stresses of the climb. “Hengist is sure to send more men out once Kendrick returns empty-handed. We’d best be gone before they arrive.”

Merlyn took a fortifying breath then moved forward to challenge the slope. She heard a quiet sigh from her companion then the rogue fell into step.

“So,” said Gwaine as Merlyn clambered awkwardly over a downed log. “How did you become servant to the Prince of Camelot – who, if I remember correctly, is the son of the biggest anti-magic advocator in the Five Kingdoms.”

Merlyn laughed at his descriptor. “Advocator is a rather placid term for his attitude,” she said.

“I’ve heard that he’s mellowed out in his old age,” Gwaine quipped with hollow humour. “When I was young, there wouldn’t be a week that would pass without news of an execution or the _cleansing_ of a village. Even beyond his borders.”

“The King possesses a certain fearsomeness,” Merlyn replied diplomatically, unwilling to open her heart to the bitterness that threatened when she thought of the suffering Uther had caused. If she did that, she feared she would become no better than Nimueh or Edwin Muirden. “I became Arthur's, er, servant quite accidentally. I first arrived in the city to learn medicine from my uncle, the Court Physician, but the King refused to sanction an apprentice, so I was forced to search for alternate work. I’m from a simple village; we eat what we grow and we all know each other, so I never gave much thought to how I, um, appeared to others. I ventured often in tunic and trousers.”

A glance at Gwaine's face showed the growing realisation of what she was saying – and the growing anticipation if the smirk was anything to go by. Memories of those early days arrayed themselves at the forefront of Merlyn's mind: going to the training ground to ogle the knights; stopping Sunstrider from ploughing a couple of children; accidentally – not accidentally – insulting Sir Ulric; getting a job as stablehand; Arthur…

“And he thought I was a boy right up to the point where he stripped off to bathe right in front of me!”

Gwaine roared with laughter – perhaps inappropriately considering their circumstances – then clapped a hand to his side as it choked into a groan, slipping slightly in his climb. She halted and reached back but he waved her off. “No, keep going. We’re almost at the top.”

“Tell me of you,” she said to distract him, pulling herself over the slippery rim of the slope and turning back to give Gwaine a hand, kneeling in the mud. “You said you have travelled far and wide. Tell me of your favourite place?”

The rogue nudged her hand away and pulled himself over the top, rolling onto his back to gaze up at the brightening sky. Merlyn joined him, needing a moment to rest her pounding head and weary neck. The sun had not yet risen, but the predawn glow was enough to illuminate the world above, pink and gold brushstrokes edging the fierce orange radiance that stained the clouds. It was a sharp contrast to the shadowed, damp place they had just escaped, and she hoped it was a positive sign for the day to come. Around them, the first birds had awoken and were singing for the dawn, their harmony synchronised with the gentle rustle of the wind through the leaves.

“It would be impossible for me to pick a single place, for many of them are so unique. Though, one I particularly enjoyed was Cheviot Hills. There was a barmaid there from the northern lands who had this,” he lifted his hand and shaped a curvaceous figure in the air. “Amazing ale.”

Merlyn barked a surprised laugh and threw out a hand to punch Gwaine's shoulder. He chuckled at her reaction, rolling onto his side to grin at her cheekily. “It was a fine brew,” he defended. “I’ve never tasted another like it.”

“Come on,” she said, rolling over and slowly pushing herself to her feet. Her head throbbed at the change in position and she longed to lie down for a while. And for a drink of water; her throat felt like sandpaper. “We’d better find a good hiding place to recuperate. I don’t think I’ll make it far before the forest is scoured.”

_Emrys…_

Merlyn jolted in shock, head jerking up to stare into the trees. Someone had just spoken into her mind.

Nothing appeared out of sorts, but the surrounding trees were old hardwoods, tall and sturdy and broadly spaced. There was a lot of room for scrub to grow – leaving many places to hide – yet, her alarm quickly gave way to wary curiosity. She knew of only one type of people that called her by that name and they were allies.

Gwaine's voice brought her back to the present; “… know this area. I was only passing through.”

“I… think I know where we are,” Merlyn said, still eyeing the underbrush. “I was led north from Camelot and there are only a few abandoned fortresses in this region. Only, I don’t know where any safe havens may be.”

_Emrys_ … was whispered in her ear again. It was a man’s voice, familiar, though she couldn’t pinpoint from where.

“Then let’s –”

“Wait,” Merlyn whispered, holding up a hand. Gwaine's casual attitude evaporated and he brought his weapon to bear, seeing her watchfulness. “I think…”

_We mean you no harm_ , the voice said and from within the trees, cloaked figures began to appear, hoods raised and hands tucked into the folds of their sleeves. Gwaine let out a noise of discontent but Merlyn touched his arm.

“They’re druids,” she said. “They’re friends.”

He held his defensive pose for another second before accepting her judgement and straightening up, resting the blade of his sword against his shoulder. “Never met druids before,” he commented lightly, though his wariness remained.

“I’ve never met an entire clan,” she said, “But the people I have are the good sort.”

“Well,” he murmured as the druids approached. “You’ve led me this far.”

The closest hooded duo came to a halt a short distance away while the handful of others stretched behind them in a loose V shape. She was unsure if it was intentional or instinctive.

“Hello, Emrys,” the one in the faded blue cloak greeted, throwing back his deep cowl to bare his face for her inspection. His voice was not the one she heard in her mind. “I am Iseldir, Druid Chieftain of this clan.”

“Merlyn,” she replied automatically, unsure how to act. He had tired eyes and a face touched with dirt. His grey hair curled about his ears, but his countenance was wise and calm. “It is dangerous in these parts right now. Hengist is in a castle nearby and his men are searching for us.”

“We know,” he said. “That is why we have come.”

Merlyn cocked her head, confused and the one in the drab brown cloak beside him spoke in that familiar tone, flipping back his own hood, “We heard tale that you had been kidnapped from Camelot and we were the nearest camp to where whispers said you had been taken. We decided to draw closer lest you have need of our aid.”

“Alwyn!” she exclaimed, gobsmacked at the appearance of the druid-friend she’d helped escape from the dungeons alongside a cluster of other innocent people. “So you live with the druids now.”

He smiled and dipped his head. “I have you to thank,” he said. “If I can help in any way, you need only ask. I am in your debt.”

She shook her head. “I did not do it for gratitude,” she reminded him. “Seeing you alive and well is enough.”

His smile widened. “There are some back in the camp who wish to thank you also,” he said. “They have been eager to find an opportunity to repay you.”

“Saving people seems to be a thing for you, doesn’t it?” mused Gwaine and Merlyn blinked, realising how rude she was being.

“Apologies – Gwaine this is Alwyn. I met him in Camelot briefly. Alwyn, Iseldir, this is Gwaine. He was captive of Hengist as well.”

“Well met,” Iseldir said politely then he turned his head as if to listen to a distant noise. “We must go. Your enemies are growing ever closer.”

“You have a safe place?” Merlyn asked, falling into step with the elder man as he turned back towards the trees.

He bowed his head. “We have a haven.”

They moved in silence for a long minute before Merlyn blurted out, “I’m very grateful that you risked yourselves to help us. Thank you.”

Iseldir placed his hand over his heart. “It is our duty to care for those in need when we can.”

And that. That right there was what she had been longing to hear since she came to Camelot. After facing Nimueh and her constant, hate-driven revenge; Edwin Muirden with his two-faced attack against the King; Arthur and his absolute conviction on magic’s corruption…

It was nice, for once, to hear something positive; confirmation that magic wasn’t bad – that she wasn’t a monster. Sorcery wasn’t evil, and it _was_ their duty to help those in need – it was everybody’s duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you enjoy? Gwaine was surprisingly difficult to get a grasp on. I had to rewatch episodes with him in it to sync myself with his character and terminology. I hope I did him justice. More to come.


	8. Emrys and the Druids

The druids’ safe-haven was a cavern hidden against a part of the mountain that had suffered a landslide in the past year. The raw earth was clumped with tangles of roots exposed to the sky, broken trees and shrubs half buried in the rich mountain dirt. The entrance was a cleverly hidden crevice carved between two angled boulders and veiled with a stray leafy branch. It was just wide enough for a fully-grown man to step through broadside and led through a dark narrow channel before opening into a long, high cavern perhaps a league long and half a league wide. The only light was provided by a handful of torches slotted into brackets, far enough apart that shadows flickered between them and multifaceted shadows of those moving within were cast upon the red stone. A cooking pit sat in the middle of the space, covered by a large pot that was tended by an adolescent boy.

Despite the lack of obvious chimney or openings in the walls, the smoke seemed to rise to the ceiling and dissipate, leaving the living area below clear of haze, smelling richly of stew instead of smoke. Various figures were scattered between the firepit in the middle of the cavern and an assortment of blankets spread alongside the left wall – a sleeping area, she assumed – and the murmuring conversations of waking people quieted at their appearance.

“Come,” said Iseldir, walking along the right side to where part of the wall at hip height jutted out in a natural shelf, wide enough and long enough for an adult to recline upon. A second, smaller sill protruded beside it, laden with assorted medical paraphernalia, and readying the supplies were two women, apparently having expected their arrival.

“Sit. Sit,” said the elder in a heavily accented voice and dragged Gwaine towards the stone shelf bed. “I treat.” Her skin was a wrinkled tawny brown and she had a red spot between her black brows, just above the bridge of her nose. Her head was shawled but Merlyn could see long black strands falling freely over her shoulders and chest; she had never seen a woman like her before.

“She comes from the south-eastern lands across the water,” said the other woman, a mid-twenties blonde with a motherly smile. Iseldir seemed to melt away as the blonde led her toward the nearby torchlight. “She is called Chandra and she is very far from home. My name is Vera.”

“Merlyn,” she replied automatically. “How did she end up here?”

Vera turned her so the back of her head was towards the torch and began prodding at the bumps, causing Merlyn to wince every few seconds.

“No one truly knows,” she answered. “She speaks very little of our language, but she is highly skilled in healing and a kind woman besides. Looks like you’ve been knocked a few times,” she added in a change of subject, poking a particularly sensitive knot.

“Ow,” Merlyn yelped, and Vera apologised. “Kendrick disagreed with my escape attempt. I was ill when I awoke but I tended to it later. I think it’s all superficial now.”

“A healer’s apprentice?” asked Vera as she reached for a prepared bowl of water with a rag already soaking.

Merlyn laughed softly. “Of sorts – when I have the time.”

“Yes,” the blonde agreed, dabbing at the matted hair to unstick the clotted blood. “Sowing the seed for Albion would take up much of your time.”

Merlyn blinked, unsure how to reply, but was distracted by the approach of a young boy, perhaps eight, who stared at her expectantly. He had large brown eyes and dark blonde hair curling towards his cheeks. His face was grubby, but his weathered, dark brown cloak was well-tended.

“Hello,” he said, stopping when he was right in front of her, staring up with doe eyes.

“Hello,” she replied, smiling in greeting. “What’s your name?”

“Cadfael, My Lady” he replied politely only to ruin it when he added bluntly, “You’re Emrys.”

“Cadfael,” Vera scolded, and Merlyn shot her a glance to see her frowning at the boy. “Behave.”

“Yes, mama,” he sighed, and Merlyn blinked in surprise, not having expected the relation. She glanced at Vera with new eyes and she smiled accommodatingly while the boy trudged away with heavy feet.

“Yes, he’s mine,” she confirmed. “I married young.”

“Is his father…”

“He passed several years ago; our camp was attacked, and he created a distraction so we might escape.” Her smile was sad, and Merlyn felt heartsore for her loss.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, and Vera shored up her composure with a brighter smile.

“It was some time ago now,” she said. “My son knows his father was a hero and I can live knowing Cadfael will grow into a time when such heartbreak will be no more.”

Merlyn smiled in return, though her happiness was hollow. “The future is not set in stone,” she murmured, thinking on Arthur's utter aversion to accepting magic. “Destiny is not always what we think it is.”

“The future is wrought in mist and maze,” Vera said, a whisper of knowing in her tone. “Sometimes one must go back to find the way ahead.”

Merlyn glanced back and meet the woman’s doe eyes, so like her son’s. “You trust that Albion will be born?” she asked, finding that she needed the reassurance. “That magic will be free once more?”

“Albion is forming this very minute,” she said kindly. “Treaties are being formed, wars brought to an end; Albion’s fate is inevitable. Magic, however… magic’s fate is not sealed. There has always been the possibility of Albion being born a land Without.”

“So I may still fail.” She swallowed hard at that realisation, turning back around so the woman could continue working on her head. Any decision she might make – any decisions she may have already made – could spoil the prophecy. Albion would be, but it may not be a land for all.

“Do not fret, Emrys,” Vera soothed. “You bear a heavy burden, but you are not alone. You have many friends, many allies, who understand the weight of secrecy and the loneliness of being different, and we are always welcome to ease your worries. We will stand by your side when you need us.”

“Alwyn wrote thus,” Merlyn said, glancing to the brown-haired man across the cavern and feeling a little better despite herself. Seeing it in a note was one thing, but hearing it from the mouth was universally more reassuring. She was but a girl after all, just past her seventeenth summer. In the world of Kings and Empires and Destinies, she was but one small spark within a sun. “It is a relief to be reminded that sorcery is not evil. Living in Camelot has made it harder to see.”

“The perspective of one is never the perspective of another,” the woman said, her words holding the essence of a quote. “Which lends strength to the power of numbers.”

“Friendship,” Merlyn summarised, mind on Morgana and her recent revelation about herself and the black-haired girl.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Friendship gives us someone to understand us, to lean on, and to give strength when we feel weak. It is invaluable to a happy life.”

She said no more and Merlyn let her work in silence, mind still absorbing Vera’s convictions. Merlyn hadn’t known that Albion’s future was not one guaranteed for magic. Despite refusing to believe in the inevitability of destiny, the reassurance that her efforts would be rewarded was one that had kept her going these past few months. To know that Albion would form with or without her was both a relief and disillusioning – perhaps she wasn’t as important as everyone seemed to think.

“The worst of the blood and dirt has been cleaned away and it appears you were right on the wounds being superficial. I am going to put on some ointment then bandage your head, and I don’t want you to remove it until you are being treated by your physician.”

Vera did so and Iseldir approached as the blonde tied off the bandage. Vera dipped her head respectfully then moved off to help Chandra tend to Gwaine, who was grumbling upon his back while his ribs were prodded.

“Are you hungry?” the Elder asked softly, holding out a wooden bowl with a delicious-smelling stew. “Osian has prepared breakfast.”

Her mouth watered at the scent and she took the proffered item gratefully, inhaling the steam with anticipation. “Thank you,” she said, taking a sip and closing her eyes at the explosion of flavour. It might be her hunger talking but, right now, this was the best stew she’d ever eaten.

“The Prince of Camelot has recently arrived in the Vale of Denaria to trade for you,” Iseldir said, drawing her back to the present. “If it is your wish, you can be guided to him immediately so you may be in the hands of those better fit to secure your safety.”

“Arthur's here?” Merlyn asked, a mixture of emotions warring in her chest, though the most potent was relief. _He did care_ …

“He has begun to grow suspect since Hengist has yet to arrive.”

“You don’t believe he will storm the stronghold, do you?” she asked with alarm and Iseldir cast her a glance without expression, somehow conveying his opinion.

“You know the Prince better than I,” he said neutrally.

“Damn,” she cursed, already knowing he would try some sort of action if no one showed soon. Arthur was not one to sit idly; nor did he have the patience to try. “How far away are we?”

“Perhaps two leagues.”

Despite the situation and her desire to be near Arthur and show him she was fine, she was extremely disappointed that she wouldn’t be with the druids for longer. She had so many questions – things she needed to know. For Morgana and Gwen. For herself…

She glanced at Gwaine behind her, dazedly staring at the uneven roof above them while Chandra stitched up his side. He had clearly been dosed with something; he had stopped grumbling at least.

“Will Gwaine be able to travel?” she asked sadly, already suspecting the answer.

“He will be weak for some time,” Vera explained as she returned to their side, apparently satisfied the eastern woman could finish up. “And his wound will take weeks to heal, even with help – the internal damage is not to be taken lightly – but he will regain the entirety of his health and vitality. He is remarkably resilient.”

Merlyn stared back at the roguish man’s pale face affectionately. “He seems to be a person who commonly gets into scrapes, yet always manages to get himself out. It is good to know he will be well.”

The other woman tilted her head in curiosity. “You do not know him?” she asked.

Merlyn shook her head. “I met him in Hengist’s stronghold only yesterday. He was as much a prisoner as I, and for less of a reason. I refused to leave him to die and, in return, he defended me at the peril of himself.”

“Then he is a man worthy of care,” Vera said, and Merlyn couldn’t agree more.

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Before she prepared to depart, Iseldir offered her a chance to wash and change, and Vera led her to a pair of wooden chests. “There are clothes in there that should fit you, and here is a bowl and clean rag to wash when you are ready. There is a small pot of heated water at the back of the cave.” She pointed to the far-left corner, where the wall of the cave sunk back into a hidden alcove, offering privacy to those behind it. “Use as much as you wish.”

“Thank you,” Merlyn said, feeling the words inadequate and overused.

“I am honoured,” Vera bowed and left with a smile.

Hesitantly, Merlyn opened the first chest and found it piled high with a tangle of clothes. The items were not folded, obviously stuffed in during the clan’s relocation and left to crinkle, but she supposed people living on the run had bigger things to worry about than creases in a shirt.

She shuffled a handful to one side in search of one her size and accidentally scraped her hand against an odd, wooden container, wincing at unexpectedly stubbing her fingers. She peered into the chest’s depths and stared at the dark, wooden cube residing innocuously amongst the clothes. It was odd; symmetrically cube-shaped but with peculiar metal designs built into each side, as if it was an intricate puzzle to be solved. Curious, she picked it up and examined it closely, finding no rhyme or reason for the delicate design. She pushed her fingers into one side and grabbed, what appeared to be, a small lever, pushing it into the small arc of its metal run, and then jumped when the top popped open and the guts of the cube arose. The roof of the box was balanced on four stilts and within its centre upon a plain base, was a golden metal ornament.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Iseldir and Merlyn jumped, disturbing the gold figure so it fell from its resting place and clattered onto the stone floor. Merlyn winced and hastily scooped it back up, fingers running over the tiny Runes etched onto one side of the spirals in hopes she hadn’t caused damage.

“Sorry,” she said, putting it back where it belonged and trying to figure out how to close it. “I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Curiosity is healthy and nothing of which to be ashamed,” he replied and leaned down to press a cleverly hidden button on the top, causing the lid to lower and hide the golden spiral once more.

“What is it?” she asked, holding it up for him to take, unsure if he would want to move it now she had seen.

“It is a sacred item,” He explained, taking the cube with a thankful nod only to place it back into the chest whence it came. Merlyn tried not to show her reaction at his silent show of trust, but the warmth in her belly was nice. “One of three, which come together to lead the curious to a quest of discovery. But it is not for the faint or greedy, and thus, must be protected until the time is right.”

She tilted her head; he was talking without really explaining anything. “It looks similar to…”

“The druidic symbol we bear, yes,” finished Iseldir. “It is called a Triskele and can be interpreted many ways, depending on the study and beliefs of the marked.”

“Do you ever meet up with other clans?” she asked, intrigued by the societal structure of the druidic lifestyle.

“When we can. If it’s safe, we try to unite during the four hallowed celebrations.”

“Yule, Ostara, Beltane and Samhain,” she recited.

“Yes,” he agreed with a single nod, his voice taking on that of a teacher to student. “Those four are the quarters of our year; the time when knowledge is richest and magic is more active. There are also the festivities of Imbolc, Litha, Lughnasadh and Mabon, times to celebrate life and the turn of the earth. However, with the laws as they are, it can be dangerous for us all to travel so often.”

Merlyn looked down, saddened by the knowledge that the traditions of a peaceful people were being stifled by the unjust laws of oppressors. People like Mordred and Morgana were forced to live in fear and isolation, which would do nothing to help their state of mind. But that reminded her.

“Have you met Mordred?” she asked, wanting to know how the boy was faring. By fate’s design, he was doomed to be Arthur's downfall but his uncle, Cerdan, had shared his determination to change his destiny. His very name meant uncertainty, Cerdan had said, and that gave Mordred power over his choices.

But what a tragic thing for a boy to be forced to battle. Merlyn's own destiny was ‘written’ but she was lucky to be granted the right to create and nurture and protect. Mordred had a good heart, and she hated that the Fates had designed it to be corrupted. If she could help in any way, let him know darkness was not all there was; that change was coming – for the better – and it was coming from love, not hate.

Just like with Morgana, she wanted to save them the cruelty of a destiny they did not ask for.

“He and his uncle live in the Forest of Ascetir, under the guidance of the wise leader, Aglain,” Iseldir said. “The protection of the Serkets allows them to live permanently within the trees, in a stable environment for those who need it. I have been told that the boy is happy and learning to master his gifts in leaps and bounds. I have also heard that he has become quite the mischief maker.”

“That is good,” she said with a smile. “It gladdens me that his time at Camelot did not stunt his ability to play.”

“I believe meeting you, The Lady Morgana and Prince Arthur helped him see that those outside druid structure are not all to be feared, and it has given him faith in the future of Albion.”

“Then something good came out of that terrible time, after all,” she said.

“Indeed,” he agreed. “Rarely do things happen without a cause, even if they are not divined until much later.”

“I hope that holds true,” she said, thinking on Arthur's orders to create the Magical Cuff. Perhaps this was all a part of Arthur's progression. When the time came and the Cuff was created, he might realise just what kind of horror he was trying to force upon her and recognise, at last, that she was not demon spawn. As Vera said earlier: _The future is wrought in mist and maze. Sometimes one must go back to find the way ahead._

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Merlyn hovered over Gwaine as he slowly stirred, groaning as he felt the toll their escape sapped from his body. Merlyn's mind was still reeling over the talk she’d had with Iseldir while waiting for the rogue to wake; of the things he had revealed regarding her own path and the power she possessed.

_“Every one of my people know healing,” Iseldir explained. “It is the calling of our clan.”_

_“What of other clans?” Merlyn asked. “Do they all specialise?”_

_“No,” he admitted. “But we have been tasked with guardianship of the Cup of Life, and such a duty requires particular education.”_

_Merlyn breathed in sharply, recognising the name. “You have the Cup of Life?” she asked, apprehension crawling up her spine. That relic contained a power beyond Merlyn's understanding, beyond what she believed one single person should control. It might be an artefact of the Old Religion, but the Old Religion was merciless, and the people who followed it tended to be the same._

_He watched her with knowing eyes, saying gently, “It was granted into our care after you defeated Nimueh. Such an item cannot be left to the whims of the ignorant, and I agreed to bear the responsibility until the time it was ready for its true owner.”_

_“And who is that?” she asked._

_He stared at her pointedly and she laughed incredulously. “No,” she refused. “I am not a High Priestess or-or a follower of the Old Religion at all. Not me.”_

_“A new age is coming. The Old Ways are not the only way any longer. Nor is the Cup of Life purposed with a single task. Its abilities are as endless as the imagination, and glorious if used correctly.”_

_“I don’t want that power,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not strong enough to have dominion over life and death.”_

_“Emrys,” he said. “You are more than you can ever comprehend. You are a creature of magic, born of the earth and sea and sky. You_ are _magic.”_

_Merlyn laughed, unable to help herself. “Me?” she asked disbelievingly. “No.” She shook her head, chuffing. “Don’t be silly.”_

_Iseldir didn’t laugh along, watching her with wise eyes. “Your powers are not yet revealed. You have still to delve into the heart of magic and, until then, you will doubt. But after… after, you will be Emrys.”_

_“What does that mean?” she asked. “What does Emrys mean?”_

_Iseldir looked away solemnly, tired gaze moving over his people. “The time has not yet come for you to learn. You are young yet, with a young king to guide and protect. Focus on that, and everything else will fall into place.”_

_“But I have so many questions,” she argued. “About the prophecy, about magic, about our kind…”_

_“Then ask,” he prompted, folding his hands together serenely. “And I will answer if I am able.”_

“Ow,” Gwaine grumbled as his awareness settled into place. He blinked heavily for several incomprehensive seconds before his soft brown eyes focused on her visage hovering above him. A frown overtook his well-bred features and she gave him a wide, welcoming grin.

“Usually,” he said in a sleep-roughened tone. “When I wake with a woman above me, I’m feeling much better than I do right now.”

She blushed scarlet at his insinuation and jumped back as if he was diseased. Her heel caught on a small basket and she overbalanced, letting out a shriek as she toppled onto her behind. She winced as the jolt of colliding with the stone floor travelled up her spine but was distracted by Gwaine's snort of amusement, and subsequent groan as he worked his abused torso.

“Serves you right,” she retorted, embarrassed at her clumsiness and still red from his comment, though she climbed to her feet quickly and moved back to his side, slapping away his hand as it searched for his wound. “Don’t touch,” she scolded, looking over the bandage. “The area will be tender for a while yet; you were stabbed.”

“I remember,” he mumbled, closing his eyes with a sigh before opening them again to frown up at her. “You have magic.”

“I do,” she said, wary. Now their lives were not in peril, would his opinion change?

“Huh,” he said simply then turned his head and squinted at his surroundings. “Where are we? I remember druids finding us, leading us back… urgh,” he grumbled, lifting a hand to rub at his temples. “What did they dose me with? Everything is fuzzy. And not in the good way.”

“There’s a good way?” she asked, tilting her head in curiosity. He looked back at her with a perplexed frown pinching his brows – as if _she_ was the crazy one.

“You ever been to a tavern?” he asked then shook his head in exaggerated disgust. “I can’t believe I’m needing to ask that of someone. What has the world come to?”

Merlyn laughed at his dramatics and assured him; “I haven’t but I have imbibed during celebrations. And I’ve awoken with a terrible hangover too. I try not to indulge too much because of that.”

“The best way to cure a hangover is to keep drinking,” he advised, and she shook her head with a snort.

“I highly doubt your theory,” she said. “And I do not plan to test it when I return home.”

He sobered at the mention of home and she bit her lip at the reminder of why she needed to speak with him. “I’m leaving,” she said. “My, er, the prince is at the Vale of Denaria nearby. I’m heading to meet with him before Hengist decides to take the ransom money by force. Or Arthur tries to infiltrate the stronghold.”

“A bit impatient, is he?” Gwaine asked, not understanding the relevance of her statement.

She shuffled from foot to foot. “You are injured,” she explained. “Vera, one of your carers, said that you should not travel for another week at least.”

He blinked with realisation and let his head slump back on his temporary pillow. “Ah,” he said neutrally. “So this is where we part ways.”

She took his hand, glad he felt the same reluctance she did. They had not known each other long but there was something there – not attraction, though the man was, admittedly, attractive. No, it was something… deeper.

“Come to Camelot when you are well,” she implored. “I know of many people you would befriend.” Gwaine was a good man, and she believed he would flourish in her home city. He had the sort of humour that Arthur would appreciate – once the prince moved beyond the irreverence and insults, that was.

“Eh,” said Gwaine, masking his emotions with a nonchalant grin. “People don’t tend to like my company for too long. And besides,” he added with a shrug. “I do better on my own. There must be a tavern nearby with my name on it.”

“I would venture a little farther than this region before giving in to drink,” she cautioned, saddened by his reticence. Gwaine might say he preferred to be alone, but his chatter and easy humour suggested otherwise. “Hengist is still looking for us.”

“Looking for you, lass,” he corrected with a grin. “I’m just the cherry on top.”

“Well, you don’t need to bait him any longer,” she replied. “Go find a tavern in Denaria or Gedref. They’re southwest of Camelot and are prosperous trading districts, full of bars and women for your choosing. And write to me every once in a while. I would like to know of your adventures.”

“You could come with me,” he suggested, his sincerity purer than it had been the first time he’d offered. “We could explore all the taverns in Cenred’s kingdom, and you could make adventures of your own. Forget about that bratty prince you serve.”

She smiled sadly, and his lips quirked similarly. He already knew her answer.

“Take care of yourself,” she said, leaning over and drawing him into a hug. He reciprocated unreservedly, arms wrapping tight around her torso and face buried in her dirty, tangled hair despite the awkward angle and pain it had to be drawing from his side. “Know you are welcome in Camelot’s taverns any time you want.”

He laughed as they broke apart and he smiled at her with more genuineness than she’d seen previously on his face. “If you ever have need of my aid, do not hesitate to find me. I’ll stand by your side whatever the means.”

That was a dangerous promise to make and Merlyn was humbled that he would grant her such power. He did not seem a man to go back on his word.

She stared at him for a long moment, feeling that more should be said but unable to fathom what. Eventually, she stepped back and turned away. “Take care of yourself,” she farewelled.

He responded, “Take care of that princess of yours.”

She paused and looked back over her shoulder in confusion, “I serve the prince,” she said.

He grinned roguishly and replied, “I know.”

She threw her head back and laughed.

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“Why have they not appeared?” demanded Arthur, storming around their temporary camp with his sword gripped tightly in a fist. The scouts had reported nothing, no signs of an approaching group, or even a message left for them to follow. Reputation suggested that Hengist should have already been waiting, ready to take their gold the minute they arrived; that he wasn't had worry growing in Arthur's gut like a tumour. Something must have gone wrong. Hengist was renowned for his short temper and Merlyn notorious for her impertinence; it was a volatile mix at the best of times.

“She’ll be alright, sire,” said Lancelot, stepping up to his side. “She is more than a match for the likes of Hengist.”

Arthur would like to believe so, but the delay in getting her back was grating on his composure. “Anyone can be caught unawares,” he said instead, eyes tracking any movement in the trees for men, though the scouts would send out an alert long before they reached the camp.

“I trust in Miss Merlyn's skills,” added Sir Pellinore of Listenoise as he stepped up to Lancelot's other side. The older knight had been a surprise addition to the guard, volunteering to join when Arthur and his men were mounting up in the courtyard. Arthur had been confused since, apart from the incident with the Questing Beast, the aging warrior had not been active for many years. But he had said when faced with the prince’s questions, “I do not know Merlyn personally, My Lord, but what little I saw of her when you were injured revealed that her compassion and loyalty knew no bounds. I would not leave a woman with such integrity to be dishonoured by the brigands who have stolen her.”

That had only increased Arthur's interest, not having realised his maid had left such an impression on the knight. But in later introspection, he decided he shouldn’t be surprised. Merlyn had the uncanny ability to affect everyone she met, and almost always in a positive light. It was something of which he was both envious and proud.

Suddenly there was a birdlike trill, recognisable as one of the scout’s sounding calls. Someone was approaching.

He waved at several of the guards near the mounts and they readied their weapons to guard the ransom gold, locked tight in a metal coffer strapped to a hobbled mule. Arthur, Pellinore and Lancelot drew their swords quietly and stepped towards the north-east tree-line where the whistle had sounded, prepared to meet Hengist’s men with truce or steel.

There was a rustle of disturbed shrubbery and Arthur took a moment to be annoyed at the dense undergrowth of the forest. It was impossible to see deeper into the woods and left those on the above the Vale quite vulnerable to ambush. But he had to trust his scout; the alert hadn’t been a call of alarm – it had been a notification of approaching company.

Arthur adjusted his grip on the handle just as the most unexpected person fell through a tangle of brambles and rolled down the slope to the prince’s feet.

“Merlyn!” he exclaimed as she stopped face up before his boots, dirty leaves in her hair and small cuts littering her face, fresh from the thorny bush she’d tumbled through. There was a bandage wrapped around her head in a sick imitation of a crown, but her eyes were clear of confusion as they lit upon him.

“Arthur!” she cried happily, scrambling awkwardly to her feet before he could think to help. “I’m so happy you’re here!”

And then she engulfed him in a big hug, forcing him to swiftly twist his blade so she didn’t impale herself upon it. He shot a perplexed glance at the other knights over her head, but they did nothing but shrug, Lancelot sheathing his sword with a smile.

“How are you here?” he asked as she pulled back and instinctively picked out some debris tangled in her knotted hair. She was a mess, appearance like a feral forest child. Her clothes were not what she’d worn when she’d left with Morgana; in fact, they appeared much like a traveller’s outfit with a sturdy brown cloak clasped at her throat.

“I escaped,” she said, as if it wasn’t obvious. “Hengist’s prisons really aren’t that great. I heard that you had arrived to pay ransom and wanted to beat him here in case he tried to demand it anyway.” She glanced over at the others and recognised her knight friend with a beaming smile. “Lancelot!”

She engulfed him in a similarly enthusiastic hug and the brown-haired knight patted her back fondly before she drew away and added to Arthur, “We should leave soon. Hengist had scouts watching the area so he probably already knows I’m here. He wasn’t very happy I escaped.”

“Did he do that to you?” Arthur asked, trying to contain his temper as he gestured to her bound head – bound to cover an injury.

She reached up and touched the bandage by her temple, as if remembering it was there. “No,” she said dismissively. “I tried to escape on the way to the castle. Kendrick – one of Hengist’s brutes – decided I was less of a hazard unconscious.”

Arthur branded that name into his memory; if the opportunity for justice ( _revenge_ , his mind whispered) arose, he would be ready. He waved at his men to begin packing and they sprang into action swiftly, storing their brief lunch and strapping their gear onto the horses. Another moved to the edge of the forest and let loose a loud whistle, calling the scouts back to camp. They shouldn’t be too far; Arthur had not planned to linger long.

“Did Morgana make it back alright?” Merlyn asked, glancing between the three knights. “Sunstrider was injured. He – I didn’t know if he would make it.” her voice shook the slightest bit and Arthur moved to assure her, only for Lancelot to beat him.

“They’re both fine,” the brown-haired man assured, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Sunstrider was weak but he is receiving the best care possible. The Lady Morgana is unharmed and only worried about rescuing you. She was ready to mount an assault on the stronghold herself.”

“Well. I can only be glad she doesn’t have to do that. The fortress is up the mountain,” she jabbed a thumb towards the jagged peaks visible over the trees, though the castle wasn’t in view. “The walk would be exhausting.”

Arthur snorted and reached out a hand to give her a light punch to the arm. “It’s good to have you back,” he said then turned and walked away before he could get any sappier. Next thing, he’d be wrapping her in a hug and refusing to let go.

He scoffed at himself. What a ridiculous thought. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be turning into more of a sook than Merlyn.

Instead, he could now turn his attention to more important matters. Namely: the magic-suppressing Cuff his servant would soon create – the new moon was tomorrow night.

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“The Lady Merlyn has been spotted among the knights of Camelot,” reported Kendrick, shifting nervously. Hengist’s fury was well known and he did not wish to suffer the consequences of being the messenger. “We know not how she evaded our patrols, but the prince is leaving with the gold.”

He watched the warlord’s face slowly turn ruby, the colour rising up his thick neck and round cheeks like a rash. With a roar, the broad warrior swept the goblets and plates off the long table, the clatter loud against the stone floor. He kicked the nearest cup in his temper and Kendrick winced, trying not to draw attention to himself; Hengist’s hand was gripping the hilt of his sheathed sword tightly.

He puffed like an irate bull, pacing in his agitation, before he spun on Kendrick and snarled, “That wench insults me! _I want a bounty on her head_!” he stepped closer and Kendrick tried not to show his nerves, gaze twitching towards his blade. “Send the word out; one hundred gold pieces for the man who brings her to me alive – and unspoiled.” He snatched up a strawberry that had rolled across the table and squished it in his hand. Red juice slid between his fingers, trailing long rivulets down his knuckles. “I want to show her what happens to people who dare humiliate me. _This insult will not go unpunished_!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know you guys wanted Gwaine to stick around – and so did I – but this is necessary. I guess they’ll just have to go on another epic adventure together in the future… ;)  
> I loved the love you guys poured on me about Gwaine. Some of your reviews made me laugh aloud, so thank you, wonderful people.  
> So many things in this chapter are important for later, just – you guys have no idea. And kudos to those who recognised the little teaser I put in for a future episode!  
> Hope you enjoyed – and sorry for the long wait.  
> TBC…


	9. The Picnic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morgana struggles... and so does Arthur

** The Picnic **

_Arthur was on the prowl._

_Dense trees and undergrowth hindered his hunt, but he lifted the sword in his hand to hack through, pleased to recognise the burnished blade of his favourite weapon. It sliced through the greenery with nary a falter and he shoved forward with his arm up to protect his face._

_He dodged around trunks and dodged low-hanging branches as anticipation swelled like a tide in his belly. His blood was singing with the knowledge that he was closing in, and a feral smirk pulled at his lips._

_He sped up, spotting the flick of a black tail beyond a shrub. A print in the dirt told him his eyes hadn’t deceived him and he leaped forward with intent._

_A glimpse of a cloven hoof and he sped up, just knowing he would find it beyond the branches, ready to meet his sword. Around a broad trunk – around another. He ran into a small clearing and found –_

_Nothing._

_He spun wildly, looking for his prey, his instincts screaming that it should be near. It should have been right before him._

_The trees all looked the same, looming up high, gobbling up the sunlight before it could touch his face. His boots crackled on dead leaves, but in a moment of clarity, he heard the distinctive crack of a twig right behind him. Triumph roared in his chest._

_He spun and plunged his sword deep, only to gasp in alarm when he locked onto the blue, blue eyes of Merlyn. She stared at him, dazed, hands moving to cradle the blade that was hilt-deep in her chest, directly through her heart._

_A thin trickle of blood dribbled down her chin, a vivid contrast to her too-pale skin._

_“No,” he gasped, breathless with horror, and he released the sword like it had burned him._

_He staggered back with bloody hands only to lunge forward and catch Merlyn as her knees slowly folded beneath her body. He held her as she sank to the ground, afraid to do more lest he make it worse._

_“Merlyn,” he whispered raggedly, hand coming up to touch her cheek. Her eyes refused to move from his._

_She gave one last, hitched breath and then was still._

“No!” cried Arthur, flailing into wakefulness with a sob, legs tangled in his blankets until he all but tore them from the mattress in his haste to be free.

His bare back hit the cold wood of his headboard and it jolted him the rest of the way into lucidity, panting with emotion as he stared blankly into the darkness of his room. He lifted his shaking hands level with his eyes, barely able to see them in the gloom, but he could recall, clearly, the red that had stained them in his dream.

His thoughts spun, more unsettled by his mind’s imaginings than he’d ever been before. The rawness of the scene, the deep, wrenching pain in his heart when he realised what he’d done, like someone had shoved their fist within his ribs and ripped the organ from his body… Arthur rubbed his chest with the heel of his hand, feeling its echo even still. It had felt so real.

Gods… _Merlyn_ …

He glanced towards the servant’s door built covertly into the wall but could hear no sounds to indicate his dramatic awakening had woken her also. For half a moment, he contemplated the idea that his dream was the result of her sorcery but dismissed it immediately as outrageous. Merlyn was not so cruel – not even with magic.

He shuffled to the edge of the bed and leant forward with his elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands as he tried to scrub away the images. When that failed, he pushed himself up completely and moved through the shadows to his desk, trusting his feet to avoid unseen obstacles.

He reached the desk and paused, tapping on its surface indecisively. After a moment, he slid into the high-backed chair there, grateful he wore trousers as the chill of the wood seeped through the fabric. He reached down blindly and slid open the bottom drawer, lifting out the small pile of parchment and dumping it atop his desk before reaching in again to scrape against the base of the drawer. A push of his hand had the base shifting enough for his fingers to curl around its edge, pulling it away completely to reveal a hidden space beneath.

Within laid a book, an ancient tome of law and legislation in Camelot. Alone, it wouldn’t be illegal, but the script focused primarily on the rules and regulation of legalised sorcery, alongside how a King could govern such a wily art.

The volume had been locked in the vaults by his father at the start of his rule, as it was one of the only works that regarded sorcery without bias, even while dissecting the methods of corruption a leader faced against guilty sorcerers. It was only one of the several sources Arthur had perused in an attempt to resolve his confusion, but it was the one that felt most like a betrayal to his father – hence, hiding it away like a terrible secret.

Still… it was a good resource and Arthur was nothing if not a tactician. He needed to know his enemy to know his weapon of choice. Which was, of course, why he had read it. Several times. And jotted down ideas of implementation he’d immediately burned in his fireplace for shame.

_Damn the girl_! He hissed mentally, aggressively dumping the book back into its hiding place and sealing it away once more. His life had been simple before she had arrived. Lonely, perhaps, but easy to understand. Now, all sorts of treacherous ideas were niggling at the back of his mind like maggots feasting on putrid flesh.

It was these thoughts that had him mistrusting himself. Perhaps Merlyn _was_ manipulating him. Even someone with the purist of hearts could do bad things in the name of what they believed. Magic was corruptive; magic was deceptive.

But was it?

Arthur groaned and lowered his forehead onto the cold top of the desk, threading his fingers through his hair and pulling the strands like it would pull clarity from the depths of his mind.

He didn’t know what to believe anymore.

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“Merlyn!” Arthur shouted in the distance and the black-haired girl rolled her eyes. There hadn’t been an hour that had passed in the last three days without the prince yelling her name. The only time peace was found was when he was asleep but then she was working on the accursed Cuff.

“Go on, dear,” said Grenda, one of the older kitchen maids. “And take this with you; perhaps it will cool his temper.” Two cream and jam buns were pushed into her hands and the middle-aged woman shuffled off before she could protest. Merlyn shook her head but was silently pleased. Cream and jam were delicious.

She hurried from the kitchens before she could be spotted by the Head Cook and paused just long enough to take a bite of one, moaning quietly at the blend of clotted cream and sweet jam – strawberry, by the flavour – against the fluffy base of the glazed dough. She felt cream and jam squeeze out of the crack in the bun and onto her cheeks but had no free hands to wipe her mouth.

“ _Merlyn_!”

“Urgh!” she grumbled and hurried off to find him.

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“What is on your face?” Arthur demanded the moment she had made it across the training fields to his side. She frowned at him, mouth full, and lifted the half-eaten cream bun in her hand; in her other, another, untouched treat waited, and she thrust it towards him. He stared incomprehensively, and she wiggled it insistently.

“Yours,” she said when she swallowed her mouthful. “Grenda was nice enough to provide for both of us.”

“Grenda?” he asked, cautiously taking the glazed bun, glad he wasn’t yet wearing his gloves and that most of his knights had yet to arrive for training. Wouldn’t do for them to see him snacking on the job – particularly a sweet, girly treat like this.

“Kitchen maid; lovely woman,” she wiped her face, sucking the jam and cream off her finger before taking another generous bite. Arthur swallowed and looked down at the food in his hand, unsure why he felt so awkward watching her eat.

“Why are you lunching now?” he asked for lack of anything else to say.

“Because I’m hungry,” she stated as if it were obvious. The way she was devouring the cream bun had him thinking it probably should have been. “I didn’t have time to eat breakfast because I was checking on Sunstrider and I know _you_ won’t let me eat lunch, so I’m taking what I can get.”

“What do you mean?” he demanded, insulted. “I don’t forbid you from eating!”

She licked her lip when a bit of cream missed her mouth and landed on her chin, saying bluntly, “I’m not allowed to leave while you eat, and I have no other chance through the day since you keep me leashed to your side.” Was it just his imagination or did she sound the smallest bit resentful? “Therefore, I don’t have lunch.”

“Well,” he blustered, refusing to take the blame for her issues. “It’s not my fault you are too untrustworthy to leave alone.”

She shot him a hurt glare before dropping her frown to her sticky fingers. “It’s not _my_ fault you are too blinded by your father’s ideals to use your own eyes and see the truth,” she shot back then straightened up with a prim expression. “I’ll set out the targets shall I, sire?” and trotted off without a backwards glance.

Arthur glowered at her back.

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Merlyn was by the side of the training yards, in the shade of an arch, repainting several worn targets when a black shadow swooped overhead. She gave a yelp and ducked, a splash of red paint landing on her blue dress as her eyes turned skyward. She spotted a large, black raven gliding into a curve over the fields before aiming back towards the wall, its dark body quickly hidden within the shadows cast beneath the stone eaves. It slowed as it neared her position, wings flapping to keep aloft, almost as if it was waiting for something. Merlyn cocked her head, a suspicion rising in her mind.

She was awaiting a reply from the druids on her request to meet again with Morgana in tow. And druids often used ravens to communicate.

Merlyn glanced nervously at the training knights but none of them, nor the few spectators, seemed to notice the odd bird. Cautiously, she backed further into the shade beside the archway and held out an arm, the raven taking it as its cue to land. She squinted against the wind created by its descent then grunted under the unexpected weight as its claws settled around her forearm, forced to support the limb with her other hand.

“You weigh more than a bird should, I think,” she told it, then added reassuringly, “Not that I’m calling you fat. It’s just, you’re rather larger than I thought ravens grew.”

She thought about her sentence for a moment then shook her head at herself; she was comforting a bird of its weight. Silly girl.

“Come on,” she told it and walked awkwardly to the closest frame to take its weight. “I can’t very well remove your letter when I have no free hands.”

The bird made no noise, but its imperious posture had her likening it to the expressions of long-suffering she often received from Arthur and Gaius. “I’m not being daft,” she told it. “I’m being practical.”

Obediently, it hopped from her arm to the top of the spare shield rack and waited patiently for her to remove the letter from its leg before it took off. She tried not to be disgruntled when the tip of one wing snapped against her head.

“Ow,” she grumbled, rubbing the spot and glaring in the direction of the departing bird before unrolling the small bit of parchment to read its innards. Within was an unfamiliar scrawl from a rather familiar name.

“Aglain,” she breathed.

He was the druid elder Iseldir had mentioned, the one who lived permanently within the Forest of Ascetir with Mordred. If he was willing to meet with them, perhaps he would bring along the young boy.

“Merlyn!” Arthur shouted, glancing around the field for her elusive frame. Behind him, Sir Leon was staring at the prince in barely-suppressed exasperation. What for, she knew not.

“ _Merlyn_!” he yelled, more irritation in his tone and the black-haired girl heaved a loud sigh before tucking away the note carefully and stepping back into the sun to lift an arm.

“Sire!” she called, drawing his attention from midfield. “What do you need?”

The annoyance wiped from his face as a smirk took its place. “Target practice!” he declared and several of the knights glanced at him in surprise. Clearly, that hadn’t been the original idea.

She had a feeling she wasn’t going to like this.

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It was dinner time and, to Merlyn's pleasure, Arthur was dining in private with the King, meaning she didn’t have to be present. Instead, she was with Morgana in her chambers, sharing a meal in a way that hadn’t happened for a long time now. She had news she wanted to divulge but Morgana's maid, Farah, did not know of their secrets and Merlyn did not know her well enough to trust her silence.

Thankfully, the highborn seemed to sense it and soon dismissed the quiet woman for the night. Farah went with a polite curtsy and quiet curiosity.

“Now,” Morgana said the moment the door was shut behind the maid, leaning forward over the low table. Her green eyes sparked with interest. “Tell me what’s eating you inside.”

For security’s sake, Merlyn incanted a muffling charm on the door so their words would not carry, grinning at the other woman’s awe. “That was one of the first spells I mastered when I came here. The first rule of living in secret within this city is to always understand you might be overheard.”

“Will I be able to cast something like that?” she asked, and Merlyn shrugged apologetically.

“I would believe so, since most sorcery is a trained art, but I cannot be sure; I do not know enough.”

Morgana looked disheartened, but Merlyn let a sly smile pull up her lips. “That is where my news comes in,” she added and the highborn stared at her with fresh hope. “You heard of my escape from Hengist’s fortress?”

Morgana nodded, looking a little confused to how that was relevant.

“I wasn’t alone when I fled. There was another prisoner and he led me to an escape route, which is why I was successful at all.” Interest piqued, and Merlyn grinned in remembrance of the roguish man. “His name is Gwaine and he is a nomad. He was injured in defending me and by the time we reached the forest, we were both weary and weak. That is when we were met with a clan of druids.”

Morgana let out a soft breath of amazement and Merlyn felt the sentiment was perfectly appropriate. Morgana would know more than she of the peaceful people simply for being the King’s ward. Her information might be biased but their significance was undeniable; the hope they gave to people like Merlyn and Morgana – trapped within a hate-filled society – was undeniable.

“What were they like?” she asked, expression bright like a child’s during story time.

“Everything we could hope for and more,” Merlyn said. “They covet peace and healing and ask for nothing in return. Their chieftain, Iseldir, said they do not seek glory, they seek harmony with all things.”

“That is all I wish for,” Morgana whispered, and her tone was heavy with longing.

Merlyn reached over and squeezed her hand, not quite finished with her tale. “They also covet knowledge,” she said with pride. “And they have information that cannot be found here regarding Seers.”

“Like me,” the highborn breathed, mouth open and tears in her eyes. “They can help me?”

“More than I,” said Merlyn.

Morgana sat back, face slack as she absorbed this new information. After a lifetime of suffering through isolation and confusion, this offer had to be a shock to the system. But Merlyn was not yet done.

“Aglain, another Elder of a different clan, offered to meet with us within Wedgewood two days hence. I agreed, though I do not know how we are to get there without suspicion. After Hengist, I don’t think the King will let you out of his sight with less than a full guard.”

“Uther does not control me,” Morgana said imperiously, chin jutted out in defiance. “And I can do what I want.”

“He is the King,” she felt she had to say. Despite the other woman’s strong will and King Uther's fondness for her, she did live with _some_ restrictions.

“How long is a ride to Wedgewood?” asked Morgana, disregarding her statement with the irreverence of a noble.

“Several hours but no more. It lies at the foot of the Ridge of Ascetir. We’d make it there and back again within a day.”

“Then a girl’s day out we shall have,” Morgana decided. “I will not let Uther’s dictatorship stop me from learning about myself.”

Merlyn thought it best to let the statement lie. Morgana was nearly impossible to reason with when her mind was decided and if she believed they were going to be able to make the meeting, then they were probably going to make the meeting.

_As stubborn as her father_ , a traitorous voice whispered in her ear and Merlyn shoved it away with vehemence. Morgana was not like Uther.

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Morgana's argument with the King could be heard corridors away and Merlyn winced from beside Arthur. The prince heaved a long-suffering sigh and adjusted their course towards the Council Chambers instead of the armoury. “Will Morgana never learn that my father does not listen when you yell?” he asked rhetorically.

The black-haired girl had to wonder when he ever listened at all but kept her mouth shut out of self-preservation. They approached the double doors and the two guards stationed each side but before they moved to open them, the doors were flung wide by none other than Morgana. And she was smiling.

Arthur drew to a halt, eyes narrowed at the odd picture. “You look strangely pleased for someone who was just yelling at the King,” he observed.

Morgana floated past him then spun so she was side by side with Merlyn, linking their arms. Her head was lifted proudly as she replied, “Sometimes it is the only way to be heard above stupidity.”

Arthur frowned, trying to work her out. “What are you up to, Morgana?” he asked and the highborn grinned cheekily.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Arthur,” she replied sassily. “But I will need Merlyn tomorrow for the whole day. I have an important errand.”

“What important errand could you possibly need _Mer_ lyn for?” he challenged, the faint humour morphing into disapproval. Merlyn tried not to breathe and draw attention.

“Why, a girl’s day out of course. Our last was so rudely interrupted and I never managed to visit my father’s grave.”

Immediately, Arthur's ire faded into sympathy, as Merlyn was sure Morgana had planned. She could certainly be crafty when she tried.

“Of course,” he acknowledged.

“I’m sure you can survive without Merlyn holding your hand for a day,” she jabbed, apparently unable to help herself and Arthur scowled, taking the bait every time.

“If you like her so much, she’s all yours,” he snapped. “I’ve never had such a useless servant.” And with that, he marched away, Merlyn unsure if she was meant to follow.

Morgana turned them with their linked arms and strolled in the opposite direction without a care, saying happily, “Uther agreed to leave us alone on our journey.”

“How did you manage to spin that one,” Merlyn asked in amazement. “After Hengist, I didn’t think he’d let you out of the citadel without a platoon at your back.”

“Well, Hengist is hardly a threat now, is he?” she said. “The increased patrols in that region have all but forced him to garrison himself. Another couple of weeks and he will be forced to abandon the castle or starve within its walls.” Merlyn didn’t like the note of satisfaction within Morgana's voice, ever wary of the seed of darkness that might grow within her. Pleasure at another’s suffering – even if it was a brute like Hengist – was not something to boast.

“There are always others like him,” she said. “As the King would be well aware.”

“I think he is more concerned with the reports of a strange beast killing in Nemeth,” Morgana revealed. “He was relieved I had no plans to travel south.”

“Does he believe it will head north into Camelot?” she asked, and Morgana tilted her head in a mild imitation of a shrug.

“The information paints the creature as one of magic, and we all know how paranoid Uther is of sorcery. Whatever he cannot control…” she trailed off and her face was dark with emotion.

Merlyn decided to move to lighter topics when Arthur’s voice echoed down the hallway; “ _Merlyn_!”

She sighed loudly and drew to a halt, gently removing her arm from Morgana's. “Duty calls,” she jested lamely then added soberly, “Do not think on the King; think on tomorrow, and the answers you may find among people who are just like us.”

“You are right,” agreed Morgana, a beatific smile pulling up her painted lips. “That is a much more pleasant thought.”

“ _Merlyn_!”

“I must go,” she said and backed away with a wave. “I’ll meet with you later tonight to organise a route.”

The highborn dipped her head and Merlyn turned to sprint away, just knowing the prince was going to make up for her absence tomorrow by driving her like a slave today. And she still had a topic to breach with Gwen now her visit to the druids was sure.

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She managed to catch Gwen in passing to ask for a free moment after work. The other woman agreed with a confused smile, but Arthur called for Merlyn to keep up and she was forced to leave her friend behind.

That night, the black-haired girl managed to convince Arthur to let her gather provisions for the next day but, instead of heading to the kitchen to do what she’d said, she, instead, sprinted out of the castle to Gwen and Lancelot's home, knapsack of unique supplies bouncing against her hip. She knocked on the door, breathless from the run, and Lancelot opened it promptly to usher her inside. She belatedly realised she had interrupted their dinner.

“I apologise for intruding,” she told Gwen and Lancelot as the wife stood in greeting and the knight closed the door behind them.

“Not at all,” Gwen assured, waving her closer to the table. “We were expecting you soon.”

Merlyn flopped into a spare chair and sighed in relief to be off her feet, pulling the strap of her bag over her head and sitting it at the floor by her feet. Unexpectedly, a warm meal was placed in front of her and she glanced up at Lancelot with surprise. He gave her a knowing smile.

“I doubt you’ve eaten yet,” he said in answer and she quirked a crooked smile sheepishly.

“Thank you,” she said and straightened up. “Arthur seems to forget that I don’t eat when he does.” She rolled her eyes before taking the proffered cutlery from Gwen, the couple sitting back down once she was settled.

The meal before them was a clear indicator of their rise in status, if nothing else; roast sausages, boiled eggs and grapes. Merlyn picked the little green berry from its vine and plopped it in her mouth, humming as flavour burst across her tongue when she crunched it. She chewed quickly so she could speak, knowing they would be curious and not having much time before she would be required back to tuck the prince in – and she still had to speak with Morgana.

“So, er,” she said, unsure how to broach the topic but deciding just to barrel in; she didn’t have time for delicateness. “I spoke with the druids regarding your fears of infertility.”

Lancelot dropped his fork, the clatter loud against his plate. “Apologies,” he said, clearing his throat and placing his knife down also. He looked at Gwen with a furrowed brow. “I did not realise your fears had taken such a hold.”

Gwen reached out and grabbed his hand, admitting softly, “My concerns plagued my dreams like terrors. I need to know for sure.”

The brown-haired knight covered her hand with his other, sandwiching her delicate fingers between his large palms. “Whether or not you are afflicted makes you no less a woman and no less my wife. If we can never have children, I will still cherish every day I can spend with you for _you_ are my heart first of all.”

The romantic within Merlyn squealed at the tender words and she couldn’t help but smile with misty eyes as Gwen wiped a stray tear from her own cheek. She appeared unable to speak so Merlyn said gently; “And, as I told you before, it is perfectly normal for women to need time to conceive after marriage; there may not be anything to concern yourself over. Nevertheless,” she added, knowing that the uncertainty would still eat at her friend regardless of assurances. “I believe there may be a way I can find out for you and, perhaps, heal you if there is an issue.”

Gwen hesitated, glancing to Lancelot, and Merlyn knew it was a big ask for the other woman. She might accept Merlyn, but the black-haired girl _knew_ that Gwen was still wary of sorcery.

“If it will ease you mind…” coaxed Lancelot, who hadn’t grown under King Uther's rule and, thus, was more open to the idea.

Gwen stared at her husband for a long second before taking a fortifying breath and saying to Merlyn, “If you are willing and it is safe to do so, I would very much appreciate any help you can give.”

“Excellent.” Merlyn stated and pushed her plate away so she could lift her bag onto the table. She stole a bite of sausage from her plate before she explained, chewing as quickly as she could, even as she longed to enjoy the flavours. “Alright. When I escaped from the stronghold, I was with another, a man named Gwaine.” Lancelot nodded, having already heard her debrief so she added, “What I told no one was that he wasn’t the only person I saw. I met a druid clan lingering in the area and they took us in. They were the ones who treated my wounds and cared for Gwaine. They also…” Merlyn pulled out a small brass bowl and a vial of oil, “Told me how to help you.”

She placed them on the table and explained, “There are several types of infertility. There’s injury-induced, genetic, – um, when it is in the very structure of your makeup, passed from parent to child – and developmental – so, er, when you were growing up your body failed to mature correctly and its causing issues now. That one has several causes but, um, they all have the same technique to diagnose, though they have different treatments.” She didn’t mention that the genetic one was incurable since it would only worry Gwen needlessly. She looked up and met their eyes. “I will need a drop of your blood, Gwen, as part of the ritual, but otherwise it is harmless.”

The couple looked at each other and Lancelot squeezed Gwen's tense hand upon the table. He said softly, “It is up to you. I am happy with whatever you decide.”

She nodded and leant over to give him a quick kiss before turning to Merlyn. “Please,” she simply said, and the black-haired girl nodded.

Merlyn was thankful Gwen didn’t make a big deal of giving blood, though it was doubtful the nonmagical woman understood the danger of using it for sorcery. Merlyn would never dare to do anything untoward to her friend, but she had read of those who followed the Old Religion ritually abusing regular people in the name of their gods, stripping them of their will and choices and intellect by use of blood or hair. Merlyn might respect the ancient community, but she did not support it. She believed, first and foremost, in consent and intention.

But it was still scary to entertain the potential in her blood.

“I will need one of your hands,” she said, and Gwen hesitantly stretched out her arm. Merlyn took it within her own and turned her palm skyward. She placed it on the table then picked up the brass bowl. “Um, I need –” she went to get up, but Lancelot stopped her with a word, so she pointed to the pail under the eaves. “Water, please.”

He filled it and returned in no time, and Merlyn smiled apologetically at Gwen, feeling her own nerves rise. “I, er, I need to prick your finger.”

“Needle please, honey,” the older woman said to her husband without hesitation, gesturing to her sowing materials.

“Alright,” Merlyn said, shaking off her insecurities. “What I am going to do is bless this water, then add a drop of your blood before I incant a spell that will tell us whether your body is struggling and in what way.”

“If… if there is a problem, will it be fixable?” Gwen's eyes were wide, and Merlyn knew that her friend’s happiness was riding on her answer.

“Yes,” she assured, squeezing her hand. “There are treatments.” For most, she didn’t add.

Merlyn cleared her throat, feeling inexplicably exposed casting in front of Gwen. She had done so with Lancelot many times, but never on such a personal topic, and never in front of the curly-haired woman.

She pulled the stopper from the oil, tilted the vial over the brass bowl and incanted, “ _Ic i blétse ethis háligwæter_ ,” letting a single drop fall from the lip into the liquid. She felt the tell-tale heat across her irises before the oil shimmered white as it merged with the water, consecrating it for her next spell.

She picked up Gwen's proffered limb and said softly, “This will sting a little.”

“No more than when I jab myself while stitching,” the older woman jested with a jittery laugh.

Merlyn smiled at her brevity then concentrated on her words, chanting as she pricked the tip of Gwen's ring finger; “ _Getæl dréor, bledsian eac sundorcýethethu ymb berendnes_.” A single drop beaded from her cocoa skin then, with a strategic tilt, it was pulled from her flesh and splashed into the centre of the brass bowl, swirling in a pale red spiral as it blended.

After a short second, the diluting blood glowed a pale orange and Merlyn stared in dismay.

Oh no.

“What does the colour mean?” Gwen asked, glancing up at the black-haired girl. She must have seen her answer in her expression because she sat back abruptly and whispered, “No.”

“It can be fixed,” she blurted out, then mentally cursed herself. No, it couldn’t. Not… not by any means known at any rate.

“Then why do you look so distressed?” Gwen pressed softly, her observational skills ruining Merlyn's composure.

“It, er, it’s one of the more difficult ones to treat,” she said, scrambling for a viable answer. “I will need to speak with the druids again before I make any decisions.”

“But I am barren,” surmised Gwen, her voice shaking ever so slightly.

Merlyn leant forward and took her hand, squeezing it tight. “This isn’t your fault,” she said firmly, meeting her friend’s devastated brown eyes and keeping her gaze steady. “You have an inherited issue, which is in no way a fault of you or your family – it’s just bad luck it has materialised within you. But I will fix it and you can bear all the children you want.”

Slowly, the curly-haired woman nodded, a tear darting down her cheek with the movement and Merlyn released her, unable to watch. Thankfully, Lancelot pulled his wife into an embrace and the black-haired girl could turn away without suspicion, packing up her tools.

The only thing ringing through her head was the question of how destroyed Gwen would be when she was forced to learn Merlyn had lied and her infertility was incurable.

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Morgana rode from the courtyard with her head held high and her luxurious ruby cloak stretching from her shoulders to blanket her steed’s shiny, grey rump. Her perfectly curled black hair reflected the orange dawn light, giving her an ethereal radiance. Conversely, Merlyn wore her usual weathered breeches and tunic and kept her head bowed to avoid catching Arthur's eye. Hotshot, the bay guard horse she was riding in lieu of the still-healing Sunstrider, was a friendly, gentle beast but he was not pedigree like the royal steeds. Tied over his russet flanks were saddlebags filled with water and food; delicate, easily bruised items that were befitting a noble but not a long ride, which the kitchen staff didn’t seem to understand.

Both women also bore long blades, though Merlyn would be next to useless in a swordfight with her weak wrists. Two patrols had been sent the day before to clear their path of threats, in lieu of having an immediate escort but, since they were heading east instead of north as the King believed, Merlyn hoped they would not be attacked.

“Teach me some spells,” Morgana demanded the moment they were off the main thoroughfare in the forest, but Merlyn still glanced around nervously.

“It is still dangerous, Morgana,” she said lowly. “Anyone could happen upon us.”

“Then show me something small,” she pled. “You promised to help me, yet I have seen neither spell nor sleeping technique to aid with my nightmares.” She paused heavily before asking, “Do you wish to know my latest vision?”

Merlyn glanced over and saw the bags beneath her eyes. “Only if you wish to tell me,” she replied softly, hating that she could do nothing to take away her distress.

“There was a great battle,” she began, sounding haunted. “And everything was red. Rudy cloaks of the Camelot knights as they clashed with black-robed warriors, blood running in rivers from fallen bodies, left where they lay like waste, speared through with pikes and swords. Boots ran through puddles of it like it was water… the sky was burning with a scarlet dawn, the sun overlaid with a misty haze like the very air was soaked in death. And _you_ were there, cradled in Arthur’s arms, a crimson stain spreading across your chest. Arthur was on his knees, sobbing as he held you and you-you were smiling at him, your teeth dyed red. And _I_?” her voice shook but she continued resolutely, words spilling like poison from her lips, “I stood before you with a dagger in my hand, the blade drenched in so much blood it flowed over the hilt and down my knuckles. I can still feel it’s warmth on my skin, fresh from the body.”

Merlyn stared ahead, unblinking, the image horrific and terrifying.

“If I am a Seer,” Morgana said, voice warbling with emotion. “Then is that the future? Am I supposed to _kill_ you, Merlyn?”

“The future is not certain,” Merlyn said, feeling breathless despite her words. Her heart was thumping in her throat, choking her. “We make our own decisions. We may have… destinies, glimpses set enough for you to see –” she swallowed hard, “– but I do not believe that our path is decided. I heard someone say, once, that fate can be changed through great sacrifice and courage. I have to believe it is so, or else our existence is meaningless.” She looked at the older woman, her green eyes wide with the same tenuousness that besieged Merlyn. Despite her shock, she managed to finish firmly, “Our _choices_ matter, Morgana. Do not act upon visions of a future you have no context for. Act for now, for _you_.”

They rode in silence for a while before Merlyn felt that the tension was too thick to bear. With a cautious glance at the spacious trees around them, she whispered into her palm, “ _Buterflége_.”

A delicate blue butterfly formed out of a dusting of magic, hovering within her cupped palm until she released it with a flash of heat across her irises. It fluttered into the air in its typical erratic way and crossed the void between Hotshot and Grane, flapping around Morgana's silky hair before dancing before her eyes, drawing her attention as it fluttered close to her nose.

She jerked back before she recognised what it was then sucked in a soft breath in awe. The butterfly’s wings shimmered with subtle luminescence and Morgana’s eyes darted to Merlyn, recognising the unnaturalness of its design. The black-haired girl smiled in pride at her creation and the highborn let loose a soft, happy laugh, lifting a hand so the simulated insect could land atop a finger.

“It’s beautiful,” Morgana breathed, lifting it to eye height to gaze at the details.

“It is,” she agreed, edging Hotshot closer so they could talk with less risk of being overheard by other travellers. “But it is also dangerous.”

“What do you mean?” Morgana asked, frowning at her. The butterfly lifted off her finger and fluttered into the sky, dissipating back into blue dust as a ray of sunshine pierced the branches and hit its body. They both watched the dust swirl away into nothingness before the older woman looked back down at Merlyn.

“Magic is amazing, and powerful,” she told the highborn. “But it _can_ be corruptive.”

“I thought you said that magic isn’t evil,” Morgana demanded. “That Uther was wrong!”

“He is,” Merlyn soothed, experiencing an odd sense of déjà vu. Was it only ten months ago that _she_ had been the one in Morgana's position and Gaius in hers? It felt like years had passed since then. “The King’s hatred comes out of fear and pain, and he should be pitied for his ignorance. But sorcery gives us an untempered resource of power. It can seem simple and easy to use it; do my chores, braid my hair, cook my meal… Punish that wrongdoer. Discipline that bully. Hurt that liar. _Force_ that person to see it from my point of view because their perspective is wrong…”

Morgana glanced away. Clearly those thoughts had crossed her mind – as it had crossed Merlyn's in the past. It was normal.

“I was told that sorcery is like a drug,” she continued. “And it is easy to become addicted. But I have known people who are stuck on something; Gaius has treated them as Court Physician. They aren’t safe. Many of them don’t even realise their decision-making skills are compromised, and that makes them more dangerous. Imagine,” she said, “That a young man – a servant, let’s say – has sorcery. He is a good man, with strong morals, and he is highly skilled in his art. He uses it to help him in his daily tasks, to ease his burden. And that is okay, yes? He is not hurting anyone. But then, he sees a noble hurting another servant, one who is not so very good at his job, though he tries his best. What is that young man to do? Should he try to help with his magic, secretly? Should he hurt the noble for hurting the servant who is trying his best; he has the abilities does he not? Or should he leave them be, for is it any of his business what the master does to his servant who is failing at his task?”

The highborn appeared stumped, uncertain how to answer. “I… He should help him,” she decided. “He is trying his best, so he should be helped, not hurt.”

“But how?” Merlyn pressed. “Should he help by hurting the noble, or completing his task for him? If he hurts the noble with sorcery, then he is no better than the noble, for the noble cannot defend himself against such a power, as the servant cannot defend himself against a noble. And if he _does_ do the task for the servant, then how will that servant complete that task in future when it is asked of him again?”

“The-the young man should speak up. Tell the noble to stop, try to help without trickery – perhaps teach the servant how to do it properly so he knows better next time.”

“Use your words instead of your magic, you mean?” Merlyn clarified.

Morgana nodded, though she appeared unsure. “Yes,” she said. “If that is the best way. Though, the noble should be reprimanded for mistreating a servant.”

Merlyn nodded. “You see, though, do you not,” she said. “Any circumstance, any event has choices we can make, and it is sometimes impossible to know which one is the right one. But magic. Magic offers us many more options with much more immediate consequences. That young magician, he has no voice in a royal household, but he does not need it with sorcery. We must remember that though we have _access_ to such infinite power, it does not mean it should be our first option. Sorcery must be used with forethought and wisdom – never with anger or vindictiveness. And people have free will, and we must respect that, even if we should not stand aside and allow suffering to occur. We cannot be so arrogant as to think we know better than those around us.”

“How can we know the difference?” Morgana asked. “Between stealing one’s rights and saving someone from pain?”

“It’s hard,” she admitted then laughed softly as she added, “And I can act rather impulsively, as I’m told frequently. What I always try to keep in mind is that everyone is entitled to their opinions and beliefs as long as their actions do not impede upon the freedom of those around them. And, if I should help, how many others will be hurt in the process?”

“But what if they’re evil?” Morgana questioned. “What if they deserve their punishment?”

Merlyn scrunched her nose. “That’s hard,” she said. “It depends on the nature of their crime; the reasons behind it. Personally, I believe everyone is redeemable, but… life isn’t nearly so kind. I just… try my best, try not to judge those around me, and focus on creating a place where everyone can be at peace.”

Morgana was silent, and Merlyn wished she were wiser, with more knowledge to help. Because, for all her words and beliefs, she was still just a girl untried to the hard decisions; her words little more than flowery suppositions in a world of thorns.

“Magic is connection,” Merlyn concluded, twisting Hotshot’s reins in her hands. “And it must be used selflessly. Only then can you be sure that you aren’t being corrupted by its power.”

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“Morgana!” a young voice shouted and both Merlyn and the highborn jerked to a halt in surprise, glancing around the sea of trees to find the familiar voice. “Merlyn!”

From their right, between two thick trunks, Mordred’s cloaked figure rushed closer, ducking under a stray shrub branch in his haste. Trailing leisurely in his wake was Cerdan.

Morgana quickly dismounted so that she could sweep the boy into her arms, burying her face in his dark hair. Merlyn followed suit, taking Grane’s loose rein so he didn’t wander while the noblewoman was distracted. Cerdan stepped around the hugging pair and dipped his head respectfully to her.

_Emrys_ , he murmured into her mind. _It is an honour to see you once more._

_And I, you_ , she replied warmly. _I did not know you would be among those to visit._

_Aglain was not sure it would be safe, but Mordred would not take no for an answer_. His tone was of paternal amusement and Merlyn had to smile at the note of long-suffering.

_My mother said headstrong children make great success in life – but she may have been saying that to stop herself going crazy._

The brown-haired druid laughed, and Morgana finally pulled away from Mordred, taking his hand and turning to the man. “I’m glad to see you are well after Uther’s attempt to end your life,” she said kindly, if a little bluntly. “But I’m afraid I never learned your name.”

“Cerdan, My Lady,” he replied with a second bow. “Mordred sensed your approach and would not wait at the clearing for your arrival. He said he wanted to make sure you would find us.”

Morgana smiled tenderly and looked down at Mordred who gaze up at her with adoration. She stroked a hand over his head and Merlyn said to Cerdan, “I’m grateful that you have come, even with the risks posed. Morgana was very skilled in diverting the patrols for today.”

“It would not do to let our new friends be harmed by our own negligence,” Morgana explained, and Cerdan bowed once more.

“Come,” he implored, lifting his hand wide to guide them onwards. “Our Elder, Aglain, and the others are waiting in a protected glade. Lunch is almost ready.”

They moved off in the direction he had pointed, the hardwood trees slowly giving way to ancient willows, indicating water was nearby. Cerdan fell into step beside Merlyn while Mordred and Morgana spoke secretly with each other.

The black-haired girl said softly, “Thank you for the offering of food. I know life on the run cannot be easy to keep your belly full. There is food in my saddlebags also; Mordred has never tasted jam, has he?”

A reminiscent smile took over the man’s weathering features. “No he has not,” he agreed. “Even I have only tasted it once. It is a wonderful condiment.”

“One of my favourite perks of serving royalty,” she added.

They walked in companionable silence for a while, listening to the indecipherable murmurs and giggles of Morgana and Mordred, before she inched closer and asked quietly, “Aglain and his people… will they be able to help Morgana?”

Cerdan glanced over at the cheerful highborn, mostly hidden from their view by Grane’s bobbing head and long, smoky mane.

“Aglain is hopeful,” he said. “There is a woman who studied under a High Priestess before she realised she did not like the society she was entering. Her knowledge is vast, if incomplete. And there is another who studied prophecies before the Purge, though she has no gift of her own. If nothing else, they will be able to broaden her knowledge and, perhaps, bring peace where now there is strife.”

Merlyn said nothing, having seen the turmoil herself. Morgana had always been headstrong and vocal in her opinions. Being forced into secrecy with such a vital part of herself, forced to hear her kind be called monsters by someone she respected while trying not to think of her gift as a curse… Merlyn could understand Kilgarrah’s warnings on Morgana's potential for darkness. Fate wasn’t pulling any punches.

But Morgana knew she wasn’t alone now. Merlyn, the druids… hopefully positive influences to remind the troubled noblewoman that sorcery was not synonymous with evil.

“We are here,” Cerdan said and pushed aside a curtain of weeping-willow sprigs so his companions could pass through. On the other side, the ground rose into a small knoll, bare of trees and lush with grass, the peak still within the bounds of the canopy but separate from the forest and bathed in sunshine. The sound of moving water could be heard beyond the rise, a soft tinkling of natural music, and atop the gentle hill, a handful of druidic people mingled. One concentrated over a cook pot, another two chatted happily as they reclined, yet another soaked up the rays that cast the area into hues of gold, and the last moved to stand when they appeared. His head was bald, his skin a soft sepia brown, and his rich, dark eyes were weighed with wisdom.

“Aglain,” she presumed when she was near enough to speak politely, dipping into a shallow curtsy. “I thank you for risking your safety to meet with us.”

“If I can help, then it is my duty to do so,” he responded, bowing to her and then to Morgana. “My Lady,” he said to her, drawing her from her chatter with Mordred. “I am pleased you have sought our aid.”

“I thank you for allowing it,” she replied, dropping naturally into her noble persona. “I am grateful for any help you can give.”

He dipped his head and stepped to the side, gesturing up the knoll. “If you would like to join us, we can share a meal and discuss your questions.”

A happy smile split Morgana's painted lips and the group moved to join the others, who all stood and greeted them enthusiastically. Merlyn moved to the side with the horses, loosening their girths and removing their bridles before adding a penning spell to keep them out of the trees. Hotshot and Grane took to the grass excitedly, the forest pasture sweeter than the fields. She left their bridles by the closest tree and turned to find Mordred at her side.

_Come, Emrys_ , he said, holding out a hand. _I want to show you some of the things Aglain has been teaching me._

_I would like that_ , she responded, taking his small hand within her own. _Then, perhaps, you could teach them to me._

He grinned widely in excitement.

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Merlyn watched Morgana create a flame in the middle of her palm. The tiny, candle-like blaze sputtered and guttered but Morgana's expression was one of wonder, the orange glow reflecting off her glistening eyes. The two old women sitting by her side, Cedany, the ex-student of the High Priestesses, and Ysmay, the oracle scholar, were murmuring to her encouragingly, smiles showing their pride. It was clear the two women had lived long, troubled lives, their weathered features creased with heavy lines and scars. But it had not soured in their passion in the least.

Merlyn turned to Aglain beside her, his hands folded together within his robe as he watched the proceedings with a calm satisfaction. He turned his head to meet her gaze and his dark eyes were like deep, calm pools, knowledge and tranquillity paramount in his visage. This was a man at peace with the world as he knew it.

“You have a question you’d like to ask me,” he stated, and Merlyn gulped, unsure if she truly did. The answers might not be what she wanted.

“I… how can I cure an incurable problem?” she blurted, then scrunched her nose at the stupid phrasing.

“Nothing is incurable,” Aglain replied. “But at times, the price is not worth the reward.”

“This time, I’m willing to pay almost anything.”

The man studied her, his bald head shining in the midday light. She met his gaze without hesitation, sincere in her declaration.

Finally, he said, “Magic is the not the consummation of power some sorcerers long for, but it does bridge the gap often closed to average men.”

“What of the ability to enable life?” she asked.

His attention sharpened, and he said, “To give life, a life must be taken.” But she stopped him with a wave of her hand.

“I already know that; the balance of the Old Religion and all that. What I mean is… the-the _potential_ for life. A woman who cannot bear children, can she be given the ability even though her problem is incurable by regular means?”

Aglain turned to face ahead of them once more, rolling his lips as he thought. Merlyn kept her eyes on him, watching his micro-expressions for tells.

“You would be wise to seek the council of Iseldir,” he advised after a long moment. “His clan is skilled in healing and they possess the tools you require to complete your task.”

_Tools?_ “You mean the Cup of Life?” Merlyn asked and Aglain looked back at her with faint surprise. She shook her head. “That requires a life sacrifice. I refuse to ask someone to die.”

“The Cup of Life is but a vessel to a greater magic, and its abilities extend far beyond the restraints of our knowledge.  It requires an even trade, but it need not always be a life.”

“Not even for the potential for life?” she asked.

“To give one the ability to bear life would require another to give up that right. An even trade to maintain balance.”

Merlyn put her hands on her belly, mind whirring.

“An even trade,” she murmured to herself.

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The day was edging into mid-afternoon and Merlyn knew they would need to leave soon if they were to return to Camelot before night. She loathed to disturb Morgana, who looked more peaceful among the druids than she’d ever seen before, but they didn’t have the luxury of staying.

“Morgana,” Merlyn said softly, interrupting the highborn’s attempt at meditation. Attempt, because the frown on her face gave away the frustration she was clearly feeling.

She opened her eyes and blinked at Merlyn questioningly. The black-haired girl smiled apologetically. “We must go if we are to make it back before the gates close.”

“Do I need to return at all?” Morgana asked. “I’m happy here, I _belong_ here. I don’t want to go back.”

“You must,” Merlyn said, frowning at her question. “The King would hunt you down if you vanished, believing you kidnapped or worse.”

“Let him,” the highborn returned with a jut of her chin. “Let him search the whole of Camelot. I will be safe in the Forest of Ascetir. Mordred said their settlement is guarded by fierce creatures beyond the strength of knights.”

“Morgana,” Merlyn breathed, aghast. “You cannot think that. What of Arthur, thinking you at the mercy of thugs? What of Gwen? Your friend. You would leave them all to grieve?”

The older woman ducked her head, her long, loose black strands falling forward to cover her face like a curtain. Merlyn sighed, her incredulity fading into sorrow. She knew exactly what Morgana was feeling, often wishing herself to find some part of the world where she needn’t worry about persecution or hate, living in peace with likeminded people. But she had realised, with the Great Dragon’s prophecy and her own position within Camelot, that she had the ability to create such a place for everyone. And she couldn’t turn her back on that.

It didn’t mean she wouldn’t like a friend by her side.

“I’m sorry,” Merlyn said softly, crouching down beside Morgana. “But you will not be alone. I will be there, and we can arrange times to meet with the druids in future.”

The noblewoman said nothing for a long minute, her head turning so she could lay eyes on Mordred, sitting beside his uncle, Cerdan, down the slope. He was staring at them with his piercing, blue eyes, his brow furrowed very slightly. He wouldn’t have been able to hear their words, but he knew they were preparing to leave. She sent him a small smile to reassure him, but his gaze was intent on Morgana as hers was on him.

“Come on,” Merlyn coaxed to Morgana, pushing herself to her feet and hoping the highborn listened.

Morgana blinked and dropped her eyes from the boy, taking a fortifying breath before she looked up at Merlyn. The black-haired girl held out a hand and the noblewoman used it to lever herself from the ground. Merlyn released a slow lungful of air, glad she didn’t have to fight with her anymore.

“We should collect the horses,” the older woman said before she strode past Merlyn and down the other side of the slope. Merlyn glanced back at Mordred, but his head was down, focused on weaving what appeared to be a daisy chain.

“Alright then,” she murmured to herself and followed the noblewoman to the horses.

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The ride back was tense. Morgana was displeased and didn’t try to hide it. At first, Merlyn tried to make her feel better, but it did neither of them any good.

“We can do more from within Camelot than we can from without,” she said.

“That may be your destiny,” said Morgana without looking at her. “But it is not mine.”

Merlyn felt a shudder roll over her body at hearing that word from her mouth. “Destiny is what we make it,” she retorted, perhaps a little bluntly if Morgana's startled glance meant anything.

Still, the highborn shook her head. “I only want to live in peace, accepted for who I am. I will not find that in Camelot while Uther rules the kingdom.”

“He will not be King forever,” Merlyn defended.

Morgana scoffed. “Unless he is assassinated, his reign will be long and fraught with tyranny.”

“The King cares for his people,” Merlyn said sharply, disliking her bitterness. “He may be blinkered and vicious in his ignorance, but murder is still murder.”

Morgana's green eyes shot to her and a flush of shame reddened her pale cheeks. “I didn’t mean that he should be – I don’t want that.”

“You did once,” Merlyn reminded her. “You planned it for days as a premeditated execution.”

“But I didn’t!” Morgana cried. “I didn’t.”

“I know,” she assured, the woman’s distress sadly reassuring. “And you should remember that. Talking about someone’s murder is never okay, Morgana, and if you truly want to embrace the druid lifestyle, you have to stop letting emotions like anger and resentment rule you. You made an error once, but you fixed it before it was unfixable. Remember that so you don’t do it twice.”

Morgana didn’t reply, and several stilted minutes lapsed in silence. When the tension grew too thick, Merlyn blurted out lamely, “You are not alone here, Morgana, and things will be better.”

The rest of their ride was done in silence and, despite cantering much of the last leg, the guards still made a fuss when they clattered over the drawbridge as the last light of the setting sun vanished behind the walls.

“Alert the King that the Lady Morgana has returned safely,” ordered the guard captain, Walter, and one of his young recruits rushed off to obey. Merlyn glanced over at Morgana and found the highborn gritting her teeth in frustration at the attention.

When they reached the courtyard, a stableboy rushed to relieve Morgana of her steed and the highborn swept up the staircase without a backward glance. Merlyn watched her until she disappeared into the castle depths to deal with the King, a bad feeling in her belly.

“Come on,” she mumbled to Hotshot, who was lipping her sleeve in weary boredom. “Let’s get you sorted.”

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It almost wasn’t a surprise when the warning bells tolled the next morning and the King informed Arthur of Morgana's disappearance.

“They left a note,” the monarch scoffed, thrusting the letter at Arthur before he strode towards the nearest window in the Council Chamber. Merlyn edged closer to read over his shoulder. Instead of a ransom or threat, it was a letter written in Morgana's beautiful cursive declaring her absence as voluntary and permanent.

_I cannot live within a Kingdom that veils it eyes with the prejudice of ignorance and I will no longer indulge tyranny or murder. I long only for the peace of a people who understand me, and that cannot be found within Camelot._

Merlyn could only be relieved that she hadn’t openly declared herself a sorcerer; who knew how the King would react to such news.

“Did she give any hint that she wasn’t happy here?” Arthur asked, frowning up at his father.

His father scoffed and flapped a hand at the note, his other hand clenched tight upon the window frame. “It is a trick,” he declared. “Someone does not want us to look for her, but I know her too well. She would _never_ leave voluntarily; this is her home!”

“Then what can we make of this letter?” the prince asked, holding it aloft. “It is written in Morgana's hand.”

“She was threatened,” the older man stated like it was obvious. “Whoever did this is obviously skilled enough to infiltrate without alerting the guards – for which they will be punished,” he added with gritted teeth. “Sir Leon is rounding up the night guards to be questioned.”

“What do you plan to do?” the prince asked, shaking the letter to clarify his meaning. “There is no hint to who took her.”

“There will be tracks to follow,” the King stated. “And I want a sweep of all the nearby villages – tell them anyone with information will be rewarded, but those who lie will be swiftly punished.” Sir Leon slipped quietly into the chamber and the King dismissed Arthur swiftly. “Head out immediately,” he instructed.

Arthur nodded and spun on his heels, storming from the chamber. Merlyn followed with her hands pressed together, equal parts angry and disbelieving that Morgana would do such a thing. She thought the highborn understood the dangers. What if there were tracks? Would they lead Arthur and his soldiers straight to the druids? What right did Morgana have to risk the peaceful people like that? She hadn’t been in danger, she hadn’t been alone; there was no need for her to stir trouble. And how would she even find the clan? They would have returned to their home camp on the other side of the Ridge of Ascetir by now, a place that wasn’t noted on any map of the forests.

She was suddenly reefed to the side, giving a quiet yelp as she fell into Arthur, but he gave no heed as he dragged the two of them from the corridor and into an empty chamber. She staggered when he abruptly let her go, spinning to close the door behind them, and she peered around the room in confusion. The space was simple and dusty, slanted light coming in from the small, high window opposite the door and there was nothing to suggest it held enough significance to warrant their invasion.

“What –”

“Where did you two venture yesterday?” he demanded, stepping nearer as she turned to face him. She took a surprised step back, realising the significance wasn’t about the _room_ , and shook her head as her heart skipped a beat.

“To–to Gorlois’ tomb,” she stuttered.

“I know you are lying,” he snapped, face stormy. “I saw the expression on your face when you read Morgana's letter. You know something.”

“I don’t,” she rushed out. “I don’t know anything.”

“Stop _lying_!” he yelled, startling her with his temper. “I’ve had enough of your deceit to last me a lifetime. Morgana could be in danger – she could be hurt and humiliated – and you are still lying to me to protect yourself!”

“I can’t say,” she whispered, hands rising to her cheeks, distraught and fearful of his abrupt anger. “I can’t say.”

“You will,” he growled, moving closer, fists clenched with the strength of his temper. “You will, or I’ll drag you before the King and reveal your subterfuge.”

“Please,” she begged. “That letter is not a lie. It’s not. That’s all I can say. Please.”

He hated with realisation. “You know where she’s gone,” he stated.

“I – no… she – I suspect. I might know where she’s gone. But I cannot say.”

“If you cannot say then you will _take_ me there instead.”

She shook her head rapidly, wide eyes locked on his furious ones. “I cannot,” she whispered. “It is guarded but I don’t know by what.”

“Then – then use magic!” he said, flapping his hand. “Transport us there.”

She stared at him, unable to believe the words out of his mouth. “I… I don’t know the spell,” she whispered, staring at him, this man, this _stranger_ who would order the use of sorcery. “I’ve never been taught.”

“Morgana's safety is at stake!” he barked loudly. “A person you call friend – or was that all a lie as well?”

“No!” she retorted, aghast he would imply thus. “The only lie I ever told was of omission, and never about my feelings! I care about you all!”

“Funny way of showing it!” he bit out. “What good are you and your magic if you cannot do anything useful with it? If you want to prove to me that sorcery is not evil, then you will use it for something _good_! Take us there, now!”

“I don’t know how,” she shouted, begging him to understand. “I’ve never been taught!”

“Then guess it!” he bellowed and her back bumped into the wall as she ran out of room to retreat. He loomed threateningly. “Take us there, now!”

“I don’t know how! I don’t know!” Merlyn cried, ducking her head. “Please, I don’t know the spell! I don’t know how to do it! Please, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t see his face, towering above her as he was, but his clenched fist was very clearly in her line of sight. She closed her eyes and waited for him to snap.

But he didn’t. He whirled away and was out the door before she could blink.

Once he was gone, she gave a sob and her legs folded beneath her. Her hands were shaking from the stress as she covered her face and cried.

He hated her. Oh, gods, he hated her.

That was the position Gwen found her in a few minutes later, having dodged the irate prince on the stairs alongside several servants.

“Oh Merlyn,” she breathed, rushing inside and dropping to her knees, drawing the black-haired girl into her arms.

Merlyn buried her face in Gwen’s shoulder and sobbed out, “He hates me, Gwen – he’s going to turn me over to the King. I can’t – I c-can’t –”

“Shh,” the older woman soothed. “You’re fine, Merlyn. Everything will be fine. Neither Lancelot, Gaius or I will allow anything to happen to you.”

“Why can he not see?” she asked despondently, clutching at her friend’s dress and distantly apologetic for crinkling the lush fabric. “Why can’t he see I’m not evil?”

Gwen smoothed her hand over Merlyn's hair and whispered, “I think he fears the truth. If sorcery is not evil then all those people who died for it, all those people who are still being hunted, have suffered for lies. I don’t think he wants to accept that he’s had a hand in murdering innocents.”

“So he prefers to think me a monster,” Merlyn concluded, closing her eyes. “But I’m not a monster.”

Unbidden, memories of past gossip slithered through her mind; of the wives who pitied Hunith for having to raise the demon spawn; the men who scorned her for her bastard status. The children who threw stones and the mothers who kept their babies away whenever she wandered near.

“No,” Gwen said firmly “You’re not a monster,” and Merlyn took her words and shoved them at the memories.

She had been young and lonely once, not understanding the connection between ignorance and fear; fear and hate. But she knew better now – and she had friends who accepted her as she was. She _wasn’t_ a monster.

She just had to make Arthur see the same, somehow.

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo… hi. Currently posting from a computer without a working keyboard in a brand new town after quitting my job, finding a new one and upping my life and moving. Hours are terrible, work is draining, and I’m a little homesick, but I’m learning what my other job promised yet never delivered. Fingers crossed this works out.  
> So sorry its been so long – I have been writing when I can, but RL hasn’t been kind to me for free time. You guys have been AMAZING. You’ve given me no pressure, no demands, no hate, just constant support and love. Thanks so much to those who’ve favourited, followed and reviewed, you’ve been my light in this tumultuous twilight.  
> P.S. I’m sorry Arthur is still such an arsehole – change is coming… soon.   
> Hope you enjoyed.


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